


Before a Fall

by queercore_curriculum



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Disabled Character, Drowning, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, F/M, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, Harrison Campbell references, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Cel Sidebottom, Minor Commander James Barnes/Howard Carter (Rusty Quill Gaming), Mutual Pining, OC who has no time for either of these idiots, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Pride and Prejudice References, Quarantine, Sex-Favorable Zolf Smith, Slow Burn, When Passions Collide, set in the 18-month gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 53,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercore_curriculum/pseuds/queercore_curriculum
Summary: After Zolf is potentially exposed to the infection, he and Wilde spend the quarantine period reading each other's favourite books, reflecting on their relationship, and completely failing to communicate with one another.Or: how Zolf lost his sea legs and Oscar Wilde fell in love with Harrison Campbell novels.
Relationships: Jennifer/Richard (Rusty Quill Gaming: When Passions Collide), Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 332
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to my wonderful beta JacqueKing, who has been a total godsend.  
>   
> This story was very much inspired by [Miri1984](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984)'s incredible work, especially the [This Ship is Cursed](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1400746) series. I largely started writing Zoscar fic because I wanted to spend more time in that world, and if anything feels familiar I gladly cede all credit to Miri.
> 
> This is my first time writing fic that's longer than a paragraph, and I gotta be honest with you—there's no way I'm going to update this on any kind of regular schedule. But I have so much Zoscar brainrot and I just want to share my pain with all of you.

When Barnes returns from a field assignment alone, he gives little more than a shrug when Wilde asks after Carter. “Dead,” Barnes says. “Maybe worse. Keep watch.” He slumps down to the cell, favoring his left side and flatly refusing Zolf’s attempts at healing. Zolf keeps watch, and the circles under Wilde’s eyes grow darker each day.

The night Barnes is released, Carter returns. He moves with unnatural grace, slipping over the ground so silently that Zolf doesn’t see him until his dagger flies out of the shadows.

Zolf ducks and blindly swings his glaive. It slices into Carter’s shoulder, and he splits the air with a horrible, discordant hiss. The door to the inn crashes open, and Zolf hears rising footsteps and the liquid gleam of Wilde’s voice as he begins to sing. 

“Get _back_ ,” Zolf shouts. He moves to block Wilde’s line of sight and pivots his glaive around his flank, as much to build momentum as to keep Wilde at bay. Carter takes advantage of Zolf’s distraction to lunge into range. Zolf lurches back, his reflexes just fast enough to avoid more than a shallow cut. But he feels blue fingers brush against his throat, cold and slick as a venomous snake, and his blood turns to ice. 

Wilde’s voice resonates louder, and Zolf can feel the power building at his back. _Move_ , _you need to_ _MOVE_. Zolf swears and rips the glaive upwards, slamming his weight behind the swing. The blade tears through Carter’s neck, and he drops to the ground, gurgling wetly, blue veins stark against ashen skin. 

Without looking away from Carter’s body, Zolf flings his arm out to stop Wilde from advancing further. “Don’t you dare come any closer,” Zolf snaps, his voice rough with exertion and anger. “ _Listen to me_ , it’s over, I’ll deal with it, don’t you _dare_.” 

Zolf, Barnes, and Carter had built a rough outdoor oven in preparation for this moment months ago. While gathering wood, Zolf had tried to joke with Barnes that Carter would be the first to go, and a shadow had crossed Barnes’s face as he turned away. The memory lodges in Zolf’s throat as he dons protective gloves, hurls Carter’s body onto the oven, and casts spark. 

* * *

Oscar waits at the entrance of the inn, watching Zolf prepare Carter’s body for cremation through the endless torrent of rain. The fire illuminates the broad angles of Zolf’s face, and Oscar can see the crimson slash across his chest, the blood blurring into the rainwater soaking his shirt. _You bloody-minded idiot._ Rage burns through Oscar’s veins, and he has the almost unbearable urge to scream into the night. 

Instead, he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath. Listens to the rain pummeling the ground, feels wet linen clinging to his skin, breathes in smoke and the earthy scent of mud. _Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ Seven days, seven nights. Just one life in the balance, one life in the face of all the world has already lost.

 _One life. Zolf’s life_. Oscar bites his tongue until he tastes blood and his mind is sharp with pain. He fixes his eyes on the smoke blooming into the night sky and tries to forget how long it’s been since he’s felt this alone.

* * *

Oscar spent a long time fiddling with the keys to his shackles on the stagecoach ride to the coast. He didn’t care about the pain, or the nightmares, or whatever crippling damage his would-be tormentors might cast his way. But this time, if he collapsed in a puddle of his own blood, Grizzop wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces. No one would.

Oscar wasn’t afraid to die. But he was burdened with information that might save the world, and he couldn’t allow that information to die with him. 

_Deep breaths. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ _Take off the shackles. Gaze into the water. Sing your little song. Find Zolf._

Oscar was fairly sure he knew Zolf well enough for a scrying spell to work, but he didn’t need a vision to know that his search would start at the sea. He’d waited a month in Damascus, gathering as much information as he could through his compromised contacts, before accepting that he’d lost every other person he trusted in Rome. _Time to move on_ , he’d thought, and quietly booked passage on a stagecoach to the coast. 

The sun was low on the horizon by the time he arrived. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, glittering in the amber light. Oscar dropped his bag and knelt down, removing his shoes and rolling up his trousers. He ran his fingers through the warm sand and looked out over the water. _Time to move on_. He shut his eyes, breathing in the salt air to clear his mind, and began preparing for the spell by reflecting on the man he needed to find. 

Zolf was solid and steady as a battleship, but he was also a deeply angry man. Oscar recalled that first night in Hamid’s apartment, Zolf’s arms crossed defiantly, the unimpressed twist of his mouth and his flat, guarded expression. How quickly his rage erupted to the surface as soon as Oscar crossed a line. 

No, Zolf Smith wouldn’t take kindly to the unwanted attention of a burned-out illusionist. But Oscar also remembered Zolf’s tenacity in Paris, his quick instincts. The knowing look in his eyes as he growled, “ _You idiot_ ,” before kicking Oscar aside and immediately moving to cover for his incompetence.

A complicated relationship, but one with potential. 

Oscar stepped forward into the surf and picked his way over to a collection of tide pools, wincing as the sharp rocks dug into his feet. Normally he used a mirror for divination, but he needed to do everything he could to ensure the spell’s success. He didn’t have a traditional arcane link—as though Zolf Smith would ever allow him to steal a lock of hair—but Zolf belonged to the ocean. And Oscar hoped that connection would be enough to bring him a vision.

Oscar crouched beside the largest pool he could find and unlocked his shackles. As soon as he laid the cuffs aside, he felt a bright arc of pain split his brow as the curse hit its mark. _Breathe through it_. He sucked in a breath to the count of five, then gazed into the water, meditating on scattered memories of a world-weary dwarf that slipped through his mind like the sunlight fading over the bay. _Show me where you’ve gone, Mr Smith_ , he thought, and began to sing.

Zolf stood on the deck of a ship, wearing his weathered brown raincoat and arguing with a tiny goblin. He’d grown his hair out in the months since they’d last seen each other and wore it braided back from his face. The loose ends lifted softly on the wind, and Oscar could see streaks of white overtaking the blonde.

Oscar’s vision blurred, and he absently wiped at his nose as it began to bleed. The wind was picking up around him, rippling the surface of the tide pool. His voice rose as he intensified his focus, and the vision panned out, revealing the hull of the ship. A large freighter, the kind that carried cargo and passengers across the Mediterranean and beyond. Oscar could make out the name _Medea_ painted in faded white letters across the bow. 

A shadow rose from the depths of the water, blooming like ink over Zolf’s face and breaking the spell. The wind whipped through Oscar’s hair, and the bay began to froth and hiss as steely clouds swelled overhead. He gasped as something glassy and cold slid around his chest, and before he could move a wave swept over the rock and pulled him into the bay. The undertow dragged him down, down, down, deeper than he thought was possible this close to shore. His head sparked and fizzled from the pressure, and when he tried to swim away, the ocean wrapped thick, icy fingers around his throat. Oscar’s mind went smooth with panic as his lungs filled with water and his vision faded to black.

He awoke on the shore beside his shackles, shaking uncontrollably and hacking up salt water. He reached down with unsteady fingers and snapped the cuffs back into place, then lay back on the sand and covered his face with his hands, fighting to breathe through the painful spasms constricting his chest. 

_Just one more near-death experience for the collection. Deep breaths. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ Oscar listened to the waves, felt the frigid press of his hands on his eyes, tasted the salt on his frozen lips. Eventually his breathing slowed, though a strange, cold ache in his chest remained.

Oscar forced himself to put on his shoes, pick up his bag, and start staggering back towards the city. The _Medea_. A Greek name, so likely a European ship. He needed to clean himself up, look up a local pub, speak to some sailors on shore leave. Find some information and, if things went well, a place to spend the night. He had enough money to afford a room in a cheap boarding house, but his magical signature would linger on the beach for at least a few hours. Best to stay off the record. 

Oscar reached the road and started heading toward the docks. The wind had died down, and the sky was suddenly clear again. Still, he was soaked to the skin and shivering in the balmy night air. He ducked down a narrow alley and behind an overflowing bin, quickly changing out of his ruined suit and into dry clothes. A rat scampered past, and Oscar let out a slightly hysterical laugh. _Oh, Mr Smith, I dearly hope you’ll make this worth my while._

He flipped open a hand mirror and grimaced at his stringy hair and ashen face. He sighed, ignoring the lingering pain in his chest, and tried to pinch some color back into his cheeks before fishing his concealer out of his bag. _You’re_ good _at this_ , Oscar reminded himself, lightening the dark circles under his eyes. _You can work with anything_. 

As he combed his hair back, Oscar practiced a smile. Too wide, too bright. Something softer, more intimate, to match the story of his haggard face. He removed his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves, opened the collar of his shirt, and tried again—a little half-smile coupled with a knowing glance. _There it is._

Oscar slung his bag over his shoulder and continued down the road towards the large merchant vessels docked at the end of the bay. Across from the dock stood a dimly lit tavern with a sign written in Arabic, English, French, German, and several other languages he didn’t recognize, clearly designed to attract an international crowd. A group of men milled around outside, laughing and smoking.

Oscar pushed open the tavern door and swept practiced eyes over the room. Someone older, experienced, but not ambitious enough to work for the Meritocrats. At the end of the bar sat a half-elf with greying brown hair, wearing a worn cable knit jumper and idly nursing a pint. Oscar smiled to himself and shouldered his way to the bar, ordering a whiskey, then sidled up to the man. “Hello,” he said, letting an Irish lilt slip into his voice. He took a sip of his drink, flicking his eyes up to meet the man’s gaze. “You look like you might’ve been here before.” 

The man laughed. “Yes, many times.”

Oscar licked the whiskey off his lips and gave the man a shy little half-smile. “Maybe you can help me with something. Oh! How rude of me, I’m Rónán.”

“Rónán,” the man said, running his eyes appraisingly down Oscar’s body. “Little seal, with saltwater in your hair, what brings you so far from home?”

 _Oh, for goodness sake, don’t try to be profound._ Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Oscar leaned against the bar and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you if you tell me your name.”

“Leoril.”

“Leoril,” Oscar murmured, lingering on the musical inflections of his accent. “How long have you been at sea, Leoril?”

“’Bout fifty years now.”

“Fifty years! But you must know every ship in the Mediterranean!” Oscar gushed, wincing inwardly at the high, naïve pitch of his voice. _Laying it on a bit thick for someone pushing forty._

Apparently not. Leoril set his drink down and shifted on the barstool to face Oscar fully, a good-natured, patronising grin spreading over his face. “Yes, Rónán, I believe I do. And many beyond the Med as well.”

“I’m looking for a...man.” _Dwarven,_ _light hair, angry, complicated, the strangest legs you’ve ever seen._ Oscar let his gaze settle on Leoril’s lips. “Among other things.” 

“Plenty of men here.”

“One is usually enough for me.” Oscar smiled sweetly. “But there’s a ship I must catch, the _Medea_. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” 

Leoril hummed. “Of course. But you won’t find her here. She sails further north, along the routes serving southeastern Europe. This time of year she’ll be working the Croatian coastline.”

Croatia. Well, that was something. Could be better, could be worse. He’d find a ship headed north in the morning.

But the night wasn’t over just yet. Oscar stepped between Leoril’s legs and touched his arm. “Amazing,” he whispered, leaning close enough to smell the ale on Leoril’s breath. “You have no idea how grateful I am for your help.”

Leoril slid his hands around Oscar’s waist and pulled him close. “I have some idea.”

Oscar beamed at Leoril and followed him out of the tavern and into the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Only when Carter’s body twists into an ugly knot, blue veins giving way to black ash, does Zolf turn away from the fire. Wilde stands waiting at the entrance to the inn, his eyes flat and dark as the storm clouds churning ceaselessly overhead. 

Zolf stomps past Wilde and shoves the door open. “You know the drill,” he says gruffly, and Wilde silently follows him down to the basement. Zolf lets himself into the cell and turns to watch Wilde lock the gate. 

“Look, could you—” But Wilde is already disappearing up the stairs, and the heavy basement door slams shut behind him. 

Zolf rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. It’s just after midnight, he’s soaking wet and reeking of smoke, and his legs are heavy and lifeless in the adamantine cage. He drags himself to the cot and removes his prostheses, letting them clunk to the floor before leaning back and shutting his eyes. The first of seven long nights. 

He tries to sleep, but memories of dark eyes and stormy seas run together like faded watercolors, painting an image he can’t quite understand. If he lies still he can hear rain pounding a gentle drumbeat through the ceiling, and his treacherous soul yearns for the open ocean. 

* * *

Zolf was preparing the _Medea_ for departure from Zadar when Wilde strolled back into his life. 

“Hello, sailor.”

 _Fuck off_ , Zolf thought. He hauled the mooring line over the side of the ship and turned to see Wilde draped against the railing, gazing down at him with a lazy smile. Wilde held himself with careful grace, but if it wasn’t for his trademark smirk he would have been nearly unrecognizable. His hair had been roughly cropped and was growing out unevenly, and he wore a dull grey suit that hung loosely on his slender frame and accentuated the dark smudges under his eyes.

“Fuck off,” Zolf growled. He hesitated, then added, “You look terrible. What’s happened to you?” 

Wilde’s grin widened, and Zolf suppressed the urge to strangle him with the rope in his hands. “Mr Smith, darling,” he said, tilting his head back and letting his eyes flutter shut. “I’ve been wasting away without you.” 

Zolf heard Bosz snicker from the rigging overhead. He glared at the goblin until she turned back to her work, then knelt down to stow away the mooring line, pointedly avoiding Wilde’s gaze. “What are you doing here, Wilde?” 

“I could ask the same of you. This is a respectable freighter, one that books respectable passengers like myself.” Wilde leaned down and murmured conspiratorially, “Who stole you away from the pirates and made you into an honest man?” 

Zolf snapped backwards as though he’d been slapped, the tips of his ears burning, and reflexively clenched his hands into fists. “Wilde, if you don’t get out of my face, I will do what I should’ve done back in Paris and _drown you in a bucket_.”

“Zolf,” Bosz called out brightly. “Get up here, I need your help.” 

Zolf turned on his heel and hauled himself into the rigging, leaving Wilde chuckling on the deck. “Well isn’t he handsome,” Bosz said idly, cheeks twitching with suppressed laughter. “Bit of a catch, really.” 

“Don’t.” Zolf grit his teeth as he yanked a knot tight. He glanced down and noticed Wilde still watching him. “D’you mind?” he yelled. 

“Just taking in the view,” Wilde said smoothly and actually _winked_. 

Zolf seethed. Wilde’s attention was the last thing Zolf wanted. He wanted the feel of wooden planks beneath his feet and the wind in his face. He wanted the camaraderie of other sailors, too old and tired to ask any more of him than an extra pair of hands to secure the deck before a storm. He wanted unremarkable work on an unremarkable ship and the endless anonymity of the open ocean. And even with his hair shorn and his ugly suit, Wilde was the furthest thing from anonymous Zolf had ever seen.

Bosz leaned over, and a wicked smile spread across her face. “You could use a tumble below decks with a pretty rich boy, you know. Live out one of those novels you love so much these days.” Her red eyes lit up with glee. “Call it _Passion at Sea_ , or something.”

“Well aren’t you clever,” Zolf muttered, and turned away from his laughing friend and the smug bastard he thought he left behind in Paris. 

* * *

By the time he finished his work for the day, a handful of his crewmates had asked after Wilde, and Zolf was livid. _Who does he think he is, arrogant prick, swaggering onto_ my _ship, waltzing back into_ my _life, acting like we’re old friends?_

Bosz, however, was having a whale of a time. _“Stowaway Love_. _The Dreamin’ Seaman_. No, no, _Sailor’s Delight_!” She crowed with happiness. “ _Sailor’s Delight_ , that’s _good_.”

“Are you this crass because you’re a goblin, or because you’re American?” Zolf called over his shoulder as he stomped towards his cabin.

“Both,” she said cheerfully, utterly pleased with herself.

Zolf wasn’t looking as he rounded the corner and nearly tripped over someone sprawled across the hallway. To his horror, Wilde was lounging on the floor outside his room with a book. Zolf leaned against the wall for balance and felt blood rush in his ears.

“Posidon’s soggy _balls_ , Wilde, what do you _want_?”

“To talk.” Wilde’s smile was wry, but his dark eyes were serious, and there was a line of tension running along his back and shoulders as he unfolded himself from the floor. 

Bosz peeked around the corner, practically vibrating with excitement. “You,” Zolf said, pointing at Bosz. “Will say nothing, or I’ll drown you in a bucket.”

Bosz flashed a toothy grin. “Ok, _Mr Smith_ ,” she purred, and flounced away. 

“I like her,” Wilde said. 

“Yeah, well, she’s a bit of a prat, but she’s alright,” Zolf mumbled. He pushed past Wilde and fumbled with his keys. “Look, these are the crew’s quarters, you can’t be in here. Passengers’ cabins are that way.” Zolf gestured vaguely down the hall without looking up.

“We lost them about a month ago,” Wilde said abruptly. “Bertie died in Prague. Hamid and Sasha disappeared in Rome along with a few others several weeks later.”

Zolf went very still. “Why are you telling me this now?” 

“I thought you might want to know. And I need your attention, Mr Smith.” 

“Need I remind you that I don’t actually work for the meritocracy anymore, thank you very much, and I certainly don’t work for _you_.” Zolf unlocked his cabin and stormed inside, slamming the door in Wilde’s face. He turned around and leaned against the door, pressing his hands into his eyes. 

_Shit_. Zolf knelt down, fingering his dolphin pendant, and began to pray. 


	3. Chapter 3

Zolf doesn’t sleep the night he kills Carter. Still, he smiles gamely when Bosz saunters down to the cell to deliver his breakfast. She takes one look at his face and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that to fool me,” she says. “How you holding up?”

“Been better,” Zolf says hoarsely. “You didn’t cook that, did you?”

Bosz snorts. “No way, bullied the innkeeper into helping.” She places the tray in the slot in the gate and sits down on the cobblestones, wrinkling her tiny nose in disgust. “You look like shit.” 

Zolf rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got that, thanks.” He reaches for his prostheses and plugs them into his sockets, then wobbles over to retrieve his breakfast. “Can I bother you for some water and a flannel? And maybe a book?” 

“Yes, you can bother, but I’ll have you know it’s taking me away from a busy day of avoiding Wilde at all costs.”

Zolf sits on the floor across from Bosz with his stupid useless legs splayed out before him and starts eating. “What’s he up to this time?” 

“You know he’s a nightmare when you’re gone, but this is a whole new level of nutso.” Bosz rests her chin on her hand and frowns. “He’ll talk to me, and whatever, I can put up with his crap, but it’s not fair to Barnes. Not sure how to yank his head out of his ass, but something’s gotta give.”

“Yeah, well, the man’s a prick, what else is new?” 

“He’s scared, Zolf.”

“Scared of what?”

“ _You know what._ ” Bosz’s eyes flash with annoyance, and Zolf is a little taken aback by her intensity. “Look, I’m not gonna tell you how to feel, that’s not really my scene, but you know better than to play dumb about Wilde, _Mr Smith."_

“Hey, I’m the one in quarantine.” 

“You know he blames himself for that.” 

“Why, because I didn’t want us _both_ to end up in quarantine? Or for him to wind up dead?”

“Whatever. It is what it is, Wilde is a complicated guy. Don’t know where we’d be without him, but I’m not gonna say he can take care of himself, you know what I mean?” 

Zolf sighs. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.” 

Bosz narrows her eyes. “So work with me here. Get the fuck outta that cell in seven days.”

Zolf finishes eating and shoves the tray at her. “Six and a half days.” 

“Six and three quarters, but that’s the spirit.” She hops to her feet and starts walking away. “Let’s get you cleaned up. And I’ll get that book for you, _When Passions Coincide_ or whatever.” 

“It’s _Collide,_ _When Passions_ Collide,” Zolf yells after her. 

* * *

As Bosz goes to gather Zolf’s things, she hears Wilde storming around the room he uses as an office. _Keep distracting yourself, asshole,_ she thinks as she slinks over to Wilde’s room and quickly picks the lock. She palms a small green volume off his bedside table, noticeably more worn than the other books stacked around it. 

Bosz notices things—it’s how she survived seventeen years as the only goblin on a pirate ship—and this is what Wilde reads when people disappear or a lead goes cold. When the future is uncertain and he’s afraid. It’s a book called _Pride and Prejudice._

_Sounds about right,_ she muses, and bundles the book in with Zolf’s clothes. _Maybe this will get the two of you talking._

On her way back, she knocks on the door to Wilde’s office. “What?” he snaps, and she pokes her head in.

“Easy, cowboy. Special delivery for the prisoner downstairs, you got anything to add?” 

“No.” Wilde is leaning against his desk and glaring somewhere over her shoulder. He clearly hasn’t slept, and his hair is lank and unkempt. Bosz struggles not to roll her eyes. Instead, she raises a placating hand.

“Okay, okay. You know, I can take care of the inspection tonight. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Wilde finally looks at her and lets his shoulders slump. “Thank you, but no. I’ll take care of it.”

Bosz nods, shuts the door, and heads down to the basement, balancing a steaming bowl on top of her bundle. “Here you are,” she says, passing items through the slot one at a time. “Took the liberty of bringing you some not-disgusting clothes.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I’ll leave you to it. Barnes brought back a weird safe that needs a light touch,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “One of us will bring you more food, and Wilde says he’ll be down later for the burlesque show.” 

Zolf snorts. “Those his words?”

She sighs and looks at her hands. “Something like that. Holler if you need anything,” she says, and leaves Zolf to his thoughts. 

* * *

On their second day at sea, Oscar found Zolf alone on the stern watching the sun rise over the horizon, his sea legs shimmering in the morning light. 

Oscar walked up to Zolf, leaning sideways against the railing and keeping his hands in sight. “Good morning, Mr Smith.”

Zolf shut his eyes briefly, then looked up at Oscar. A wave of different emotions worked over his face—grief, anger, resentment—before he settled on an exasperated frown.

“My watch starts in five minutes,” Zolf said.

“We don’t have to talk right now. But I want you to know that I’m not working for the meritocracy these days, either.” 

That got his attention. Zolf straightened, uncurling his arms from the railing and turning to face Oscar properly. “What d’you mean?”

Oscar shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

Zolf rubbed his forehead. “It always is with you.” 

Oscar leaned his head against his hand and gave Zolf a tired smile. “Complicated is interesting. And necessary, when dealing with problems of this scale.” 

“I left for a reason.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. We both know that’s not possible.”

“Then _what_ are you askin' me, Wilde?” 

Zolf started turning back towards the ocean and Oscar knew he was losing him again. He knelt down to Zolf’s height and tilted his face slightly, letting the sunlight illuminate the unhealthy grey sheen beneath his skin. Zolf was a cleric—one who, above all, couldn’t abide standing by when someone needed his help. And Oscar knew just how bad he looked up close without his make-up or his magic. 

“Come to my cabin tonight. Or I’ll come to yours, whatever you prefer, and I’ll explain everything.”

Something heavy and cold curled around Oscar’s chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, and he froze. _Breathe, breathe, deep breaths, breathe._ He desperately sucked air in through his nose and exhaled slowly, rubbing his chest until the pressure eased. 

Zolf’s frown deepened and he took a half-step forward. “What’s happened to you?”

Wilde shook his head and shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. “Not here,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady through sheer force of will. “The walls have ears, and all that.”

Zolf pressed his lips together and nodded. “Your cabin. I get enough attention with these ridiculous legs, don’t want the rest of the crew gettin’ any more ideas.”

Oscar kept a straight face, but his eyes danced as he leaned close enough to count the freckles dusting Zolf’s broad cheekbones. “I’ll be perfectly discrete. I still have the gag from Paris, you know.” 

Zolf jerked away, and the tips of his ears flushed red. “What is _wrong_ with you,” he said, spluttering. “Just...stay out of my way, I’ll find you when I can.” 

Zolf stormed off, and Oscar waited until he was out of sight before he staggered to his feet, gripping the railing and struggling to catch his breath. Wrapping his coat more tightly around himself, he shut his eyes and tried to clear his head. A vision of bright red ears flashed in his mind, and even though his chest ached and he was frozen to his core, Oscar smiled. 

* * *

Zolf was scrubbing the deck, muttering darkly to himself, when Bosz suddenly appeared beside him. “Hello, sailor,” she said directly in his ear. 

Zolf swore and tripped over the bucket, spilling soapy water everywhere. “Gods, Bosz, _why?!”_

Bosz doubled over with laughter. “Your face...worth it,” she managed, gasping for breath and wiping tears from her eyes. 

Zolf stomped over to the supply closet and flung a mop at Bosz. She reached up and caught it easily. “Man, I haven’t scared you like that since our days on the _Snapdragon._ You’ve got it _bad."_

“The only thing I’ve got is a damn migraine,” Zolf grumbled. He picked up his own mop and swiped furiously at the puddle. “Seriously, Bosz, don’t test me. I had a helluva night.” 

Bosz’s ears twitched. “You don’t say.”

Zolf made a strangled noise and cast create water over her head. Bosz shook like a dog and grinned. “Glad you got that out of your system while we’re still mopping up. Who is he, anyways?” 

“Someone I used to work with, before this.” Zolf gestured generally at the _Medea._ “No one you’d know, runs in different circles.” 

“Try me. I was a pirate for seventeen years, we get around.”

“Oscar Wilde.”

Bosz froze. “You’re sleeping with _Oscar Wilde?!”_

Zolf let his mop clatter to the deck as he covered his face with his hands. “For fuck’s sake, Bosz, I’m not sleeping with _anyone._ And how on earth do you know Wilde?”

“Just by reputation. Wilde wrote a _very_ entertaining article about the captain of the H.M.S. _Cambria_ a few years back that forced him into early retirement. Maritime security in the Channel was completely fucked for over a month; it was wonderful.” She leaned on her mop and looked at Zolf thoughtfully. “You, my friend, are completely out of your depth.” 

“I am _not_ out of my depth! I’ve dealt with him before!”

“Zolf, you are many things, but subtle is not one of them. Just look at how much he’s gotten under your skin already,” Bosz said, waving a hand at the mess around them. “I don’t know what he wants from you, but I’ll bet he gets it in the end. He has a _very_ nice butt.”

“Yes, yes, we all know he has a nice bum,” Zolf grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“Alright, but I’m rooting for you crazy kids.”

“Come off it, Bosz. We’ve got work to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a huge relief to wash away Carter’s blood and pull on a shirt that doesn’t reek of burned flesh. But when Zolf goes to change his trousers, something small and hard falls out and hits the floor with a thud. 

It’s a book bound in green leather and pressed with gold, strikingly different from the dull cloth that covers his Harrison Campbell novels. Curious, he reaches out and scoops it into his lap. The cover is emblazoned with a huge peacock, and swirling letters read, _Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen_. Zolf runs his fingers over the gaudy feathers, reminded of a hideous waistcoat from a different time, and flips the book open to the first page.

> _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife._

A romance novel. Zolf smiles, and continues reading.

* * *

> _“From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”_

“Lizzy, _yes_ ,” Zolf whispers fervently. 

* * *

It’s mid afternoon before Bosz is able to stop working and deliver Zolf’s lunch. Zolf is hunched over on his cot, so engrossed in his book that he doesn’t even notice her. 

“Good book?” she says, and Zolf startles. 

“Huh? Oh, uh, hey,” he says, rubbing his neck. He holds up the book—Wilde’s little green volume, she’s pleased to see. “Where did you find this?” 

Bosz slides the tray of food into the cell and waves her hand vaguely. “Around. Thought you could, you know, take this opportunity to diversify your reading.”

“It’s _very_ good.”

“Yeah, well, it comes highly recommended.” She leans against the bars. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about this _brilliant_ girl named Elizabeth, and this absolute prick named Mr Darcy who is _not right for her_ ,” Zolf gushes. “And, and, Lizzy’s sister is in love with his best friend, and he...oh, I don’t want to spoil it for you, it’s just _great_.” He looks over at the food. “Hey, could you use that broom over there to push the tray over? I don’t want to put my legs on.”

Bosz grabs the broom and lies down on her front, pushing the handle through the slot. “The things I do for you,” she says, voice strained, and shoves the tray in Zolf’s direction. 

Zolf stretches his arms out and manages to grasp the tray with his fingertips and lift it onto the cot. “Cheers,” he says, already turning back to the book.

“Have fun,” Bosz says, and walks away smiling.

* * *

Oscar checks on Zolf at midnight.

Zolf is sitting up on the cot and reading. He looks up when Oscar descends the staircase and puts his book aside. 

“It’s good to see you,” Zolf says carefully, and Oscar’s heart aches. “Hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t stand.” He gestures at his prostheses, which lie in a heap on the floor. 

Oscar nods. “I’ll give you a moment,” he says, and turns around. 

He hears Zolf sigh behind him, then the rustling of clothes. “Ready when you are.”

Oscar turns around to see Zolf kneeling naked on the cot. He lifts his lantern and the light reflects off the lines of Zolf’s face and chest, which are blessedly clear beyond a handful of blurry tattoos. “Turn around,” Oscar says.

Zolf uses his arms to leverage his body around, and a graceful tattoo of a dolphin arcs across the wide planes of his back. 

_Gods, will you take this from me too?_

“Thank you, Mr Smith.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Oscar lowers his eyes as he turns away. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and walks up the stairs. 

* * *

It was dark out by the time Oscar heard a knock on his door. He set his notes aside and stood up. Blood rushed to his head, and he leaned against his chair as a sharp splinter of pain in his chest blurred his vision. _Breathe through it,_ he reminded himself. Oscar shut his eyes and counted to five, inhaling slowly through his nose, then went to open the door. Zolf stood on the other side, looking guarded and uncomfortable.

“Mr Smith, do come in,” he said, opening the door wider. 

Zolf stepped into the tiny cabin, his sea legs silent on the wood floor. Oscar gestured for Zolf to take the sole chair in the room, then sat on the cot and crossed his legs. 

“I know what you’ve lost in the past few months, and I hate to impose on you like this.”

“What would _you_ know about loss?” Zolf spat. 

Oscar smiled slightly. “I lost my magic, my contacts, and six agents in so many weeks,” he said evenly. “I’m homeless, and I’m starting to run out of money. But there are far worse things in the world right now, Mr Smith, and if you’re willing to trust me I’ll tell you what I know.” 

Zolf’s ears turned crimson. He opened and closed his mouth, then took a deep breath and looked at his hands. “I trust you, I just don’t like you,” he mumbled. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Oscar told him about Prague, Cairo, Damascus, and Rome. He explained how the meritocracy had been compromised, how society was starting to break down across Europe, and the rumours of a bizarre pandemic slowly spreading across Britain. And he described the condition that no cleric had been able to heal. 

“So someone’s stealin' your magic?” Zolf asked. 

“No.” Oscar’s hands started shaking, and he shifted so he could hide them in his pockets. “Much more banal than that, I’m afraid. A group of spellcasters have been targeting me.” 

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Not good, but manageable.” A wave of exhaustion rushed through him, and he gripped the edge of the bed to ground himself. “I’m sorry, I think I need to lie down.”

* * *

Wilde shut his eyes as the blood drained from his face. Zolf leapt to his feet. 

“Lie back.” Zolf cradled Wilde’s neck and eased him down onto the bed. Wilde was shivering and clearly trying to hide it. “You’re _freezing_. I need to examine you.” 

Wilde’s head rolled to the side. “I’m f-f-fine.”

“Shut up,” Zolf said absently. He placed one hand on Wilde’s chest and grasped his driftwood dolphin with the other, whispering a prayer to Poseidon and breathing in slowly. 

In his mind’s eye, Zolf could see a dark knot wound tightly around Wilde’s heart. The knot pulsed, and something _wrong_ shuddered deep in his core.

Zolf ripped his hand back. “What the fuck are they doing to you?” he said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Wilde murmured. 

Zolf ignored him. “Let me heal you.” 

“Don’t bother.” Wilde weakly pushed Zolf’s hands away and tugged on his trouser leg to display the band of adamantine around his ankle. “Anti-magic shackles. They keep the spells at bay.” 

Zolf crossed his arms. “Why aren’t they working?”

“They are working—when I wear them. I had to take them off a week ago, and the effects have...lingered.”

“Why on earth would you be so stupid as to take off the very thing that’s protecting you?”

“I needed to find you.”

“You could’ve just—”

“What? Wrote you a letter?” Wilde huffed a laugh. “Or maybe I could have asked around for the dwarven sailor with the sea legs, left a nice, warm trail for the Cult of Hades to follow right to your doorstep.”

Zolf looked down. “You didn’t have to…” he trailed off.

Wilde waited a beat, then sighed. “I can’t trust anyone else right now. Scrying was the quickest, safest way to find you, and I can sleep off the effects. It’ll just take another day or so.” He rested the back of his hand on his brow and smiled prettily. “Besides, it’s lovely to have you fussing over me.” 

Zolf felt his ears get hot. “S’my job, don’t take it personal.”

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Well, I can still help. I have mundane medical training, you know, I’m not completely useless without magic.”

Wilde shook his head. “I just need to sleep.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, and his eyes were very, very dark. “Tell me you’ll think about it.”

Zolf shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, a little overwhelmed by the sincerity in Wilde’s face. He looked so terribly young. “I’m not… I don’t know if… Look, it ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, Wilde. I’m no hero.”

Wilde rubbed his eyes. “Take this however you want, Mr Smith, but you are literally the only person I’m looking for at the moment. Maybe the world could use a hero, but right now all it has is a handful of freedom fighters and an illusionist who’s lost his magic. I’ll take my chances with you, whatever doubts you might have.” He lowered his hands and smirked. “Do you need me to get down on my knees? I’m very good at it.” 

Zolf had a sudden vision of Wilde on his knees before him, his lips wet and swollen. “Gods, Wilde,” Zolf said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t say that ever again, and I’ll think about it. But no promises.” 

Wilde crumpled back onto the cot. “Thank you. That...that means a lot.”

Zolf shuffled his feet. “Right, well, I’m not doin’ it for _you_.”

Wilde turned to face him, propping his head up on one hand, and smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Zolf let himself out and breathed in deeply, grateful for the cold night air. He hesitated, then went to find Bosz.

Bosz was perched in the crow’s nest, keeping watch. “Storm’s blowing in,” she said without turning around. 

Zolf climbed over the ledge and walked to her side. Bosz pointed at the dark clouds gathering on the western horizon and narrowed her eyes. 

“Weird time of year for it. The weather’s been fucked lately.” She turned to face Zolf, and her ears swiveled mischievously. “I saw you leaving Wilde’s cabin, Mr Smith.” 

“Yeah...about that. How attached are you to the _Medea_?”

Bosz raised an eyebrow. “Fuck the _Medea_. Tell me _everything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilde's copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ is based on [this edition.](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1342/1342-h/1342-h.htm)


	5. Chapter 5

Bosz is working on Barnes’s weird safe when Wilde finally notices. 

“It appears that I’m missing a book. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?” Wilde’s face is carefully blank, but he’s impatiently drumming his fingers on the table.

Bosz slings her stethoscope around her neck and squints at the safe. It has one of the most devious locks she’s ever seen. There are five concentric dials, each ringed with a different series of arcane runes, and she doesn’t need magical sight to know that the wrong combination will trigger some kind of horrible self-destruct mechanism. “What’s it look like?”

“You know what it looks like.”

“Do I?”

“Green leather, gold embossing.”

“Sounds boring.”

Wilde laughs humourlessly. “I’m not a fool, Bosz. What did you do with it?” 

Bosz flips up her magnifying goggles and looks at Wilde pointedly. “Have you asked Zolf?”

Wilde actually flushes, bless him. “You gave it to Zolf?” 

“Yes, I gave it to Zolf, you idiot. Now, if it’s so important, go down to the basement and ask him for it.” 

Wilde starts fiddling with his cuffs. “You don’t think he actually read it, do you?” 

Bosz turns back to the safe. “Is that a rhetorical question? It’s a _romance novel,_ what do you think?”

Wilde narrows his eyes. “How do you know it’s a romance novel?”

“I mean, I can read too, you know,” she grumbles. “Also, Zolf may have told me. Because, you know, he was reading it. Which apparently you’re being weird about. Which I don’t really get, personally, but maybe you two should _talk about it.”_

* * *

Zolf is too exhausted to stay awake after Wilde leaves, and he collapses into a deep, dreamless sleep. It’s late morning by the time he wakes. Someone has already left his breakfast, though the food has long gone cold, along with his copy of _When Passions Collide_ and a note. Zolf plugs in his prostheses and limps over to collect the tray. In Bosz’s scrawling hand, Zolf reads, _Finish the book today. It might be missed._

Once he secures his breakfast and settles into his place on the cot, Zolf turns back to _Pride and Prejudice_. It’s obvious he isn’t the first person to read this book. The binding is worn, and someone has gone through and underlined their favourite passages. He lingers over some of them as he searches for his place:

> _ "Nothing is more deceitful," _ _said Darcy,_ _ "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." _

It reminds Zolf of a certain smug bard, one who bears limited resemblance to the man he works with today. But others resonate more deeply with the Wilde he’s come to know:

> _"There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."_

The markings grow more frequent as Zolf enters the book’s final act, with several passages double-underlined or circled. He learns to love Mr Darcy (nearly) as much as Lizzy, and sighs as he reads:

> _“You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous._ _By you I was properly humbled._ _I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."_

In the margins, in a neat, rounded hand Zolf instantly recognizes, Wilde has written, _"or a man."_

Zolf is hardly surprised to discover that he’s reading Wilde’s book—Bosz and Barnes are clever, to be sure, but neither has any patience for literature. But he feels a little embarrassed to have watched these two complicated people come to love one another under the shadow of Wilde’s hand. Zolf has a vision of Wilde’s elegant fingers smoothing over the pages in his lap, carefully marking Lizzy’s wit and indiscretion, Mr Darcy’s arrogance and dignity. The image makes him inexplicably warm, and he wonders how Wilde would react to the Harrison Campbell novels he loves best. 

* * *

“Do you really want to die as some no-name sailor on this bullshit commercial freighter?” Bosz asked.

“Oi, I’m only 50. I’m not plannin' to die on the _Medea,"_ Zolf replied. 

“Well, I might." Bosz turned to look out at the horizon. Zolf always forgot just how old Bosz was for a goblin. With her feathery white hair tucked neatly under a handkerchief and her lightning fast reflexes, she seemed ageless. “You know, I probably have another two years left in me. Maybe three, if I’m lucky. Haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple.”

Zolf hesitated, then gingerly patted her shoulder.

“Don’t patronize me, Zolf.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Gods, you’re the most awkward asshole I’ve ever met. Dunno how you managed to get laid. Wilde must be completely blinded by your abs.”

Zolf sputtered helplessly. “Bosz, _what the fuck."_

“I coulda stayed on the _Snapdragon_ til the end, not that those bastards deserved it. But I thought retiring to this safe, stable, _boring_ job would do me some good in my old age. I thought wrong.” She turned and looked up at Zolf thoughtfully. “I’ve wasted enough of my time on this ship. And you may think you have all the time in the world, but if you believe what you just told me, then time is running out for all of us.” Bosz shrugged and waved a hand. “Anyways, no time like the present to fuck up the system, and all that.” 

* * *

When Zolf brought Bosz to Wilde’s cabin the next morning, Wilde answered the door wearing a thick fur coat. 

“On your way out?” Zolf asked, eyeing the coat. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Wilde’s face was drawn, but he waved them in with a smile.

“Wilde, this is Bosz,” Zolf said. “Bosz is trustworthy, she’s smart, and she’s very good with her hands.”

“Any history between the two of you that might provide...intimate knowledge of her abilities?”

Bosz gave Wilde an appraising look, taking in his expensive coat and soft, ink-stained hands. “None of that. I’m an American goblin and a recovering pirate. What could possibly make you think we have the same taste in men?”

Wilde burst into laughter. Zolf turned beet red and started sputtering about drowning them both in buckets if they didn’t behave. 

“I like her,” Wilde said to Zolf, wiping tears from his eyes. 

“I’m right here,” she said, waving her arms. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!”

“Sorry, he does that,” Zolf said. “ _Anyways,_ Bosz is an old associate from my, uhm, free trading days. We sailed together for five years, and she got me this job on the _Medea._ She’s a bit of a fixer, our Bosz—never met a device she couldn’t disable, and clever as anything. Maybe too clever sometimes.” Zolf turned to glare at his friend, who gave him a sunny smile.

“And she’s willing to leave the ship?” Wilde asked.

“You’re doing it again, asshole,” Bosz said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m _right here._ Do you have a thing against goblins? Or women? Or Americans? ”

“Americans, yes. Goblins and women, no.”

“Hey, I can work with that,” she said, and stuck out her hand.

Wilde took her hand in both of his and shook it solemnly. “Well, Bosz, it’s lovely to meet you. I think we’ll get along fine.”

“Agh, your hands are _freezing_ ,” she said, snatching her hand away. “Well, I know you two have...business to attend to, and I have work to do. I’ll leave you to it.”

Wilde watched Bosz let herself out. “She’s quite the character,” he said.

“Yeah, well, the two of you might deserve each other,” Zolf mumbled. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, really. Just tired.” Wilde flashed Zolf a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Zolf noticed Wilde shivering, and his lips tightened.

“You’re not fine, are you? How am I supposed to trust you if you keep lying to me about your condition? I’m a _cleric,_ for goodness sake.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Yes, there is! You can take the damn shackles off and let me heal you!”

Wilde wrapped his arms around himself. “As I believe you pointed out the other day, taking off the shackles may have caused this trouble in the first place.” 

“Oh,” Zolf said thickly. “Right.”

“Yes, quite.” 

Zolf crossed his arms. “Look, Wilde, I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but you’re no use to anyone if you’re dead.”

That seemed to get through to him. Wilde sat up straighter and looked over Zolf’s shoulder. “Something’s changed. Before, it was a war of attrition—they ruined my sleep, and slowly ruined me. These new symptoms are more...assertive, let’s say.” 

“Yesterday, during my examination, I saw something.” Zolf rubbed at his chest. “It wasn’t...right. Hard to explain.”

“The shackles should dispel the effects of any curse, arcane or divine.”

“Let me take a proper look.”

Wilde reclined back on the cot and let his coat fall open. “Will you lay your hands on me, Mr Smith?”

Zolf actually laughed at that, a short huff. “I’m a proper cleric, not some half-arsed paladin.” He inhaled slowly, touching his driftwood dolphin to focus his power. “Can you take off your shirt?”

“Thought you’d nev’r ask,” Wilde murmured, slurring his words. His fingers shook as he tried to undo the buttons. 

Zolf frowned. He gently pushed Wilde’s hands aside, snapped open his shirt, and pressed his palms to Wilde’s chest. Wilde’s skin was cold to the touch, and his pulse almost imperceptible beneath Zolf’s fingertips. 

“Deep breaths for me,” Zolf said, and opened his mind’s eye. 

The dark mass in Wilde’s chest had grown, enveloping his heart and lungs with inky tentacles. Each time Wilde tried to breathe, shadowy tendrils burrowed into his arteries and tightened around his airways.

Zolf exhaled and dropped his hands. “Hypothermia,” he said, scooping up Wilde’s coat and wrapping it around his shoulders. “Magically induced, somehow. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and it’s escalating rapidly. We need to get you warm, _now."_

Wilde blinked slowly. “You’re...Zolf Smith.”

“Yes, Wilde, I’m Zolf Smith, and you’re confused because you somehow have _severe hypothermia."_ Zolf darted over to Wilde’s desk and started flinging papers around. “We need the keys to your shackles, _right now_. I don’t care what they’re casting at you, if I can’t get you warm in the next few minutes your body is going to start shutting down and you will _die."_

Wilde shook his head and looked at Zolf blearily. “What...keys...for...?” His eyes started fluttering shut, and his head lolled forward.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Zolf shouted, hurling a book at the wall. He tore off his duster and draped it over Wilde before stripping down to his pants, climbing into the cot, and bundling Wilde into his arms. “You complete _bastard,"_ Zolf hissed. “Do _not_ die on me, you prick, you absolutely are not allowed to die the day after recruiting me to _save the fucking world."_

Zolf pulled the blankets over their heads to trap the heat and pressed his ear to Wilde’s chest, monitoring his breathing. “Come on, come on, come on,” Zolf said. “Stay with me, Wilde. Can you hear me?” He grit his teeth and bit Wilde’s shoulder.

Wilde babbled in an unfamiliar language, the syllables slippery and melodic. 

“Gods, _why,"_ Zolf growled. He wrapped his hand around Wilde’s impossibly thin wrist and checked his pulse—still slow, but steadily rising. 

* * *

The last thing Oscar remembered was the feeling of Zolf’s hands on his chest before his vision faded to black.

When he opened his eyes, he was underwater. The murky light refracted off a massive, undulating figure floating nearby, its face distorted beyond recognition in the shadows. Oscar tried to swim upwards towards the light, but the entity wrapped its countless arms around his chest and began to squeeze, crushing any remaining air from Oscar’s lungs. He was _so cold_ —could he even remember the feeling of heat?—and he let his body relax as the darkness overtook him again. It would be good to sleep, to finally let go. 

“You complete _bastard,"_ Zolf’s voice growled harshly into his ear. “Do _not_ die on me, you prick, you absolutely are not allowed to die the day after recruiting me to _save the fucking world."_

Oscar’s eyes snapped open, and even though he was still underwater, he felt something solid and warm at his back.

 _"Stay with me,_ Wilde. Can you hear me?”

 _Yes._ So this was a dream, maybe a vision. Something sharp bit into his shoulder, cutting through the fogginess slowing his mind. _This isn’t real._ The limitations of the earthly world wouldn’t apply, and water carried sound better than air. _Use your voice._ Oscar shut his eyes and began to sing, propelling himself upwards towards the sunlight. 

As soon as he breached the surface, Oscar found himself bundled under a pile of blankets and coats and wrapped in Zolf’s arms. He hadn’t felt this warm in days, and it would be so easy to drift back to sleep. “So tired...so warm...” he mumbled, settling back into Zolf’s chest.

“No, Wilde, listen to me, you cannot go to sleep right now,” Zolf said. “We need to keep your heart rate up. Do you understand me?” 

Oscar nodded and forced his eyes open. He started shivering violently. 

“Good, that’s good, that’s…” Zolf took a deep breath. “Where are the keys to your antimagic shackles?” 

“T-t-trou-s-sers p-pock-k-ket,” Oscar said. 

Zolf swore. _"Seriously?"_

He fished them out, unlocked Oscar’s shackles, and cast cure moderate wounds.

* * *

Nothing happened. 

When Zolf reached out to Poseidon, he felt no response.

 _Fuck._ “Uhm. S’not working,” Zolf mumbled. “You’re not undead, are you? Was Sasha catching?” He realized belatedly what an idiotic thing that had been to say. Hopefully Wilde was still too out of it to be a dick. 

Wilde shook his head, and his eyes fluttered shut. “None of that,” Zolf snapped as he leaned down and clasped the shackles back into place. “You can’t sleep right now, _stay with me."_ He lay back down, and Wilde immediately melted into him, moaning softly. Zolf caught a whiff of Wilde’s cologne, a mix of citrus and rosemary. 

“I’m here, Mr Smith.” Wilde’s voice was husky and tight, as though he’d been screaming. “Gods, you’re like a furnace.”

Zolf sighed. Wilde’s ribs stuck out sharply under his hands. “You’re too thin. No wonder you’re always cold.”

Wilde paused, took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Zolf shook his head. “Didn’t do shit.”

“I had...a dream. I was underwater and… well, I think I would’ve died, if you hadn’t woken me up. And while it appears we both may be having some issues performing—”

Zolf snorted. “Not the pillowtalk I’d expect from you, Wilde.”

Wilde’s ribcage shook as he laughed, then heaved as he started coughing. Zolf frowned and rubbed Wilde’s chest. “Easy, now. Take it easy.”

Wilde collapsed back against him. “I just—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, for everything. I know you didn’t want any of this.”

Zolf grunted, unsure of what to do with this strange, sincere Wilde nestled in his arms. “Not your fault. Well. It is, a little. But you can hardly be blamed for the state of the western world.”

“I suppose I should be grateful for the opportunity to prove to you just how badly I need your help.”

“You’re such a fucking drama queen.” Zolf shook his head, and Wilde’s hair brushed softly against his face. “Look, I’m not gonna to lie to you. I don’t appreciate the way you forced your way back into my life. But I—I can’t very well run away from the end of the world, can I?”

Wilde exhaled slowly, and Zolf felt some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. “I’m glad you came to that realization, Mr Smith.” 

“You’ll have Bosz to thank for that. Like I said, you might deserve each other.” Zolf shifted slightly to settle more comfortably on the cot. Wilde followed, chasing his body heat. “Look, I’ll help you save the world on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Call me Zolf.”

Wilde went very still, and Zolf felt his ears burn. “Zolf,” Wilde said softly. “Will you call me Oscar, then?”

“Oscar.” Zolf grimaced. “Bit weird. Can’t promise to keep that up.”

“I am a bit of a mouthful, I suppose.” 

Zolf could hear the smirk in Wilde’s voice, and he smiled in spite of himself. “Gods, what have I gotten myself into?” 

“Tell me your life isn’t more interesting with me around.”

“That’s one way to put it. I mean, that was _terrifying._ You have some kind of horrible mass in your chest that pushed you into severe hypothermia in a matter of minutes.”

Wilde hummed. “Sounds about right.”

“Uhm. That’s it? That’s your reaction?” 

“Worth it, to have you hold me in your arms.” He snuggled closer, running long fingers down Zolf’s forearm. “But you know, as lovely it is to be held by you, I can certainly think of more effective ways to keep me warm.”

Heat curled in Zolf’s belly. _Oh._ “You are without question the absolute worst thing to ever happen to me,” Zolf grumbled, suddenly very aware of the way Wilde’s arse was pressed against his crotch.

“You know me. Always exceptional.” Wilde made a little noise of protest as Zolf moved away and hefted himself out of bed.

“Well, I can think of more effective ways to keep you warm too. Sounds like you’re feeling better, so I’m off to fetch some tea, and some more blankets,” Zolf said, pulling his clothes back on and refusing to look Wilde in the eye. “And we’ll try magical healing again when I’m back.” He hesitated. “You shouldn’t be left alone.”

Zolf walked over and swung the cabin door open, scanning the rigging for Bosz. “Hey!” He caught her eye and touched his left cheekbone with two fingers, the signal from the _Snapdragon_ that meant “man down.” She frowned and scrambled down in a flash. He ushered her inside and closed the door. Bosz took in Zolf’s loose shirtsleeves and Wilde’s disheveled hair, and her eyebrows practically disappeared into her headscarf.

“Dunno if I’ve ever seen you without that awful raincoat,” she said. “S’pose you only take it off for _special_ occasions.” 

“I already have so many regrets,” Zolf muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT TO ADD A TAG FOR HUDDING FOR WARMTH, I finally feel like a real fanfic writer!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Zolf is paging through _Pride and Prejudice_ when Bosz stops by to deliver his lunch. He snaps the book shut and holds it up. “You nicked this from Wilde.”

“Yes, and?” Bosz slides the tray through the door. Zolf plugs in his legs, totters over, and sinks to the ground with a grunt.

“He find out yet?”

“Yup,” Bosz chirps. “Y’all should have a _book club._ ” 

Zolf snorts as he picks up his food. “I’m not given’ the book back unless he asks for it, mind you.”

“Well, yeah. He’s a grown-ass man, I’m not here to run interference or anything.”

“Oh, you’re so full of shit.” 

Bozs clutched at her heart dramatically. “Who, me? I would _never."_

Zolf swallowed some rice and made a face. “Hey, have you got a pen?”

“Nope, but I know someone who does, and the locks on his office are just as shitty as the locks on his bedroom.”

Zolf smirked. “Also, some paper while you’re at it, if you don’t mind. Much obliged.” 

Bosz raises an eyebrow. “What’re you planning?”

“Dunno yet. Just have some thoughts. Might as well write them down, not much else to do.” 

* * *

Oscar sits at his desk, fiddling with his pocket watch. He flips it open. _11:48 pm._ He snaps it shut, stands up, and starts pacing around his office. _Deep breaths._ Oscar shuts his eyes, breathing in slowly to the count of five. Listens to rain outside, the ticking of his watch, the creaking of the floorboards in the hallway. Opens his eyes and flips the watch open again. _11:51 pm._

 _Shit._ He slumps into his chair and spends a few minutes reading and rereading the same paragraph, then a few more writing and rewriting the same sentence. Flips open the watch again.

_11:59 pm._

He sighs, grabs his lamp, and heads downstairs.

When Oscar opens the cellar door, Zolf stands, leaning on the bars for support. His legs glint in the lamplight.

“Hey.” 

Oscar nods curtly. _Breathe, breathe._ “I’ll give you a moment,” he says, and turns his back. He hears the cot's springs creak, followed by the clank of metal legs hitting the stone floor. 

“Alright then,” Zolf says.

Oscar turns back to face Zolf and raises his lamp. _Don’t meet his eyes._ “Turn around.” 

Oscar’s hands remember the firm lines of Zolf’s shoulders, the soft skin of his back, and he reflexively flexes his fingers. 

“Thank you, Mr Smith.”

Zolf shakes his head and groans. “For goodness sake.” He goes to pull on his trousers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oscar moves to leave. 

“Oscar, wait.” Zolf’s voice is low and husky, and Oscar freezes on the stairs. Takes a deep breath, feels the cold metal keys cutting into his palm, smells the mildew the innkeeper never manages to scrub out of the cellar floor.

Zolf clears his throat. “I’ve, uhm, got something for you.” Oscar turns to see Zolf slide a slim, paper-wrapped package through the cell door. “Heard you might be missing a book.”

Oscar walks slowly back to the cell, fighting the urge to run out the door. _Don’t say anything, don’t look him in the eyes. Just pick up the book and go._ He bends down to scoop up the package and realizes that Zolf is kneeling before him. Even through the wire-wrapped bars, Oscar feels the heat radiating off Zolf’s body and catches a whiff of tobacco and cedar. He bolts upright and strides out of the cellar with as much dignity as he can muster. 

Oscar waits until he’s back in his bedroom to open the package. It’s a book bound in rough dun fabric, with blunted corners and water stains mottling the pages. Plain black lettering across the spine reads, _When Passions Collide by Harrison Campbell._ His mouth falls open, and a bright, delighted laugh bubbles out of his chest, surprising him.

Oscar flips the book open, running his fingers over the ugly brown paste papers. He can’t remember the last time he read a new novel. Well, it’s not as though he’s going to get any work done tonight. He kicks off his shoes, sinks into a chair, and adjusts the lamp. 

> _Jennifer wove through the crowded arcade, ducking around servants overburdened with packages and ladies with sweeping hoop skirts. It’d been an awful morning on the trawler. The rain had been endess, soaking through her oilskin coat in less than an hour. And the catch? Nothing but mackerel, no more than a couple hands’ length apiece. Johnson had been tetchy as anything, snapping at the slightest provocation, and per usual he’d taken his anger out on the junior members of the crew. Jennifer fingered the coins in her pocket and clenched her jaw, seething. Johnson had docked her and Sam’s pay for failing to swab the deck to his exacting standards, and now Jennifer couldn’t afford a proper hot meal if she wanted to make rent._
> 
> _Suddenly a man carrying a massive box stepped out of a store and crashed into Jennifer, sending her flying. She reflexively slapped the ground to ease the impact and rolled to her feet. The knee of her trousers caught on a splinter in the floor, and Jennifer swore as the fabric ripped. So much for going to bed early. She_ hated _mending._
> 
> _“Hey!” the man cried. “Watch where you’re going!” He was roughly Jennifer’s height and slender, with glossy black hair, olive skin, and fine features that were twisted with annoyance._
> 
> _“Watch where_ I’m _going?” Jennifer snapped. “You just knocked me clean over!”_
> 
> _“Do you have any idea how expensive these are?” The man hefted the box onto his hip. “If I’ve smashed even one jar of pigment, that’s at least a week’s pay.”_
> 
> _Jennifer checked her pockets._ Fucking hell. _She must have lost a couple coppers when she fell. She knelt down and quickly scanned the floor, but knew better than to hope that the pickpockets would spare her coins during peak shopping hours._
> 
> _Jennifer stood up to face the man, balling her hands into fists and growling in frustration. He took a step back. “Oh, piss off,” she spat. “I just lost what little money I had to buy myself dinner tonight all because you’re too stupid to look both ways before walking into a crowd, and you’re worried about some bloody_ mints?"
> 
> _The man blinked. “Uhm, pigments,” he said thickly. “As in, for paints.”_
> 
> _“I’m too tired for this,” Jennifer muttered, and stormed off._

Oscar smiles and turns the page. It might not be Austen, but then again, who is?

* * *

> _As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed her._
> 
> _“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she, “did he come at all?”_
> 
> _She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure._

Zolf stroked his beard idly. _You and me both, Lizzy._

> _“If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent?”_

Wilde doesn’t need to perform the checks. Bosz and Barnes are perfectly capable, have checked him countless times before. And Wilde always went a bit stony whenever someone went into quarantine, but he’d never been quite this, well, “silent, grave, and indifferent.”

> “ _Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”_

Zolf shuts the book and lets his head fall back on the cot, listening to the faint sound of the rain through the ceiling. He imagines the look on Wilde’s face when he opens the package to find _When Passions Collide_ and grins. Something carefully neutral, only a little strained about the mouth. Or he’d twist his lips mockingly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Maybe he’d laugh. Zolf hasn’t realized how much he misses the bright, silvery sound of Wilde’s laughter, and his ears prickle with warmth at the memory. _Maybe we’ll start a book club after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone reading along. I went back and forth about posting a WIP but I've been having the time of my life writing this the past few days. I appreciate you all!


	7. Chapter 7

Oscar puts aside his paperwork, massaging his temples and watching the clock. _11:35 pm._ He flips open _When Passions Collide_ and finds his place:

> _Richard loved the fish docks in Moorport. It was the only place in this dreary city that reminded him of home. If he closed his eyes and focused on the salty tang of the fresh catch and the pounding rhythm of the ocean, he could almost believe he was standing in the Jagalchi Fish Market, could almost taste the rich heat of his mother’s maeuntang. So when Anna gave him the afternoon off to practice drawing from life, he knew exactly where to go._
> 
> _As he gathered his supplies and prepared to leave the studio, Anna stood up from her canvas and stopped him. “Draw every line with intention, Richard,” she said. “You think too much about each line sketched onto the page, and while that may produce passable work in a studio, you need to draw with confidence to truly capture the movement of life. You don’t want a collection of weak, ineffective lines; you want one line that serves its purpose.”_
> 
> _Richard looked down and adjusted his bag. This was a conversation they’d had countless times before. “Yes, Anna, I know.”_
> 
> _“No, I don’t think you do.” Anna crossed her arms and frowned. “This is important. You have the opportunity to display your work alongside mine in London at the end of the month, and you’ve yet to produce a painting that shows your true potential. Better than the other hacks in your generation, to be sure.” Richard laughed, and she smiled encouragingly. “But we both know that_ _you’ll need to create something extraordinary to succeed in this country.”_
> 
> _“Right. So, uh, no pressure then.”_
> 
> _“Have some faith in yourself. I certainly do.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Keep your eyes and your mind open. It’ll come to you when you’re ready.”_
> 
> _“Miss Anna Scott, the finest painter in England_ and _a philosopher, no less! What have I ever done to deserve your patronage?” He gave her a dazzling smile, and she rolled her eyes._
> 
> _“Oh, show some respect, you cad.”_
> 
> _Richard bowed dramatically. “You wound me. I have nothing but respect for you, my lady, my benefactor, my liege.”_
> 
> _She laughed and waved him out of the studio. “Off with you. And don’t come back until you create something worth my time.”_
> 
> _Richard hummed thoughtfully on his way to the fish docks. Anna was right, of course; she always was. But even after living in Moorport for six years, manifesting creativity in this often alienating place continued to be a struggle. Maybe returning to the place that felt closest to home would bring him the inspiration he needed._
> 
> _On reaching the docks, Richard found a spot tucked away from the activity and settled down with his sketchbook. After the pouring rain yesterday, the summer sky was a brilliant, azure blue, and the afternoon sun beat down on the dock. A trawler was docking in the bay, its deck piled high with fish. The ship’s captain snapped out his orders, and the crew hurried to unload the catch before it spoiled in the heat._
> 
> _One of the crew doffed her cap to fan her face as she spoke to another member of the crew, and Richard realized with a start that she was the woman who had crashed into him in the arcade the day before. Her short dark hair clung to her scalp in damp ringlets, and sweat beaded down her tawny brown neck. She handed her hat to her friend and shucked off her jumper. Her shirt was soaked almost all the way through, and Richard could see the broad lines of her shoulders and back through the damp white linen. She rolled up her sleeves with strong, rugged hands, and the wiry muscles in her forearms glistened in the light._
> 
> _Richard’s breath caught in his throat. In the rush of the arcade, he hadn’t appreciated how beautiful she was. She was so unlike the perfect, symmetrical models in his figure drawing courses. There was a story in her body, in the uneven muscles bunching in her back and chest, the scars peppering her hands. Richard furrowed his brow as he began to sketch._

The words blur before Oscar’s eyes, and he snaps the book closed. He covers his mouth with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut. _Breathe, breathe, breathe. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._

It’s just a book. A well-loved book, dog-eared and worn from being read and re-read countless times, stained with seawater and Zolf’s beard oil and the polish he uses on his glaive. Oscar breathes in through his nose, exhales to the count of five. _Come on, Oscar. You’re_ good _at this. Pull yourself together._

He flips open his pocket watch. _11:58 pm._ As good a time as any. He picks up his lantern and heads down to the cellar.

Zolf is lying back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling. He smiles when he hears the door open and scrambles to sit up. “Oh, hey! Did you get my book?” 

Oscar’s chest squeezes tight, and he bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He nods. “I’ll give you a moment,” he says, and turns his back. He hears a muffled curse, then the rustling of clothes. 

“Ready when you are,” Zolf says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Oscar turns back to face Zolf and raises his lamp. 

> _He hadn’t appreciated how beautiful she was._

The light limns Zolf’s face, catches in his beard, and Oscar knows every freckle, every line, every scar. He thinks of the way Zolf’s eyes shine when he’s pleased, how his lips tighten when he’s concerned. 

“Turn around.” 

> _There was a story in her body, in the uneven muscles bunching in her back and chest, the scars peppering her hands._

Zolf’s ears flush red and warm when he’s flustered. His legs ache at the end of every day, and the only thing that helps is a hot water bottle. He has a scar on his bicep that dates back to his mining days, when he tripped while carrying a pickaxe. Rubbing his shoulders makes him sigh with pleasure, and pulling his hair makes him moan. He grins every time Oscar tugs his beard to draw him close for a kiss. 

“Thank you, Mr Smith.”

Zolf stares at him through the bars, looking utterly exhausted. _“Oscar.”_

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oscar all but runs up the stairs and slams the door shut behind him.

* * *

Oscar rubbed at his chest idly as he watched Zolf brief Bosz on the situation. He’d stopped shivering, but it still hurt to breathe, and the cold lodged in his chest like a jagged shard of ice. It might be dormant for now, but he knew better than to think he was ever out of the woods. His eyes settled on Zolf’s driftwood dolphin and he hummed thoughtfully. _I didn’t take you for someone who fell for jealous men, Zolf._

Zolf shuffled over, his hands jammed in his pockets. “My watch is about to start, but, uh, Bosz has agreed to stay with you.”

Oscar sighed, wincing at the ache in his chest. “I don’t require a babysitter, Mr Smith.”

“It’s Zolf.” 

Bosz’s jaw dropped, and a look of delighted surprise spread over her face. She bounced eagerly on the balls of her feet, her gaze shuttling back and forth between the two of them. 

Zolf’s ears turned a violent shade of crimson. “Bosz ain’t nobody’s babysitter. And you should get to know each other anyways. Remember, you’re no use to anyone if you’re _dead.”_

 _“Zolf,”_ Bosz gushed. “I think _Oscar_ and I will have plenty to discuss once you’re gone. Don’t you agree, _Oscar?”_

Zolf rubbed the back of his neck. “Gods,” he muttered. 

“Off you go!” Bosz grabbed Zolf’s arm and yanked him towards the door. “Duty calls!” She opened the door and shoved Zolf outside. “I’ll be good, I swear,” she shouted down the hall, and slammed the door shut. She turned around and looked up at Oscar thoughtfully. Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Bosz stepped over to the cot and plopped down on the floor. “So. We’re definitely going to discuss your intentions with poor Mr Smith. Wait, I’m sorry, we’ve moved on to _Zolf_ now, haven’t we?” She grinned, showing far too many teeth. “But first I need to know how you discovered Captain Nathan Palmer’s particular fondness for sheep.”

Oscar beamed. “Oh, I just _knew_ we’d get along. So there’s a club in Bournemouth called The Gallery…”

* * *

“...but Zolf was so completely plastered that he stood on the table, took off his leg, and challenged her to a—”

“Oh, _come on_ Bosz, have you no shame?”

Bosz smiled angelically up at Zolf, who glowered at her from the doorway of Oscar’s cabin. “Hello! We’re bonding!”

“Over my humiliation in Cardiff?!”

Oscar grinned at Bosz. “I can think of few more effective ways to develop a mutual understanding with a new acquaintance than recounting the humiliation of one’s shared friends.”

Zolf crossed his arms. “‘Friends’ is a strong word, Wilde. Don’t flatter yourself.” He looked at Bosz. “We’ll talk later. Off to bed with you.”

Bosz winked. “Stay warm tonight. Storm’s about to hit.” She let herself out, and Zolf turned to face Oscar.

“I’m sleeping here tonight.” Oscar opened his mouth to reply and Zolf narrowed his eyes. “No, do _not_ start, I am _not_ in the mood. I’ll be sleeping on the floor. End of discussion.” 

Oscar hesitated. “Alright.”

“What, no clever innuendo? No brilliant puns?”

“My puns _are_ brilliant, thank you ever so much for noticing.”

“Oh, sod off, Wilde.” Zolf rolled his duster into a makeshift pillow and lay on the floor, turning away from Oscar to face the wall.

“Zolf.” Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “I apologize if I’ve done something to offend you.”

Zolf didn’t respond. “You don’t need to say anything. But know that I…” Oscar sighed dramatically. “That I appreciate you being here.”

Zolf grunted and rolled onto his back. “Was that hard for you?”

Oscar laughs softly. “Yes, actually.” 

“Sorry. It’s just…” Zolf scrubbed a hand over his face. “The last few days have been rough.”

Oscar gave him a tired smile. “Quite.”

Zolf looked up at him, his face lined with concern and his lips tight. “We’ll figure it out. I just need to…” He trailed off, and his eyes went distant. “Shut that light off. Let’s try to get some rest.”

* * *

When Zolf finally drifted to sleep, he dreamed of Poseidon. 

He was sitting on the deck of the _Medea,_ completely alone. The wind roared around him, and the storm clouds in the west were moving impossibly fast. He tried to stand, to move, but his legs wouldn’t respond, and when he looked down there was nothing there. 

The storm crashed through the water, sending the ship careening. The ocean swirled into a faceless, murky giant, its countless limbs undulating through the waves. Poseidon extended one of his arms and tossed something onto the ship. It hit the deck with a dull clank.

A pair of adamantine shackles, snapped cleanly in half.

_Did you really believe a band of metal could stop a god?_

Zolf woke up with his eyes crusted in salt and icy water dripping from his beard, the alarm for all hands on deck ringing in his ears. He could hear the winds whipping the sails and his crewmates’ boots pounding against the deck as they rushed to secure the ship against the storm. He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the sting of the salt. “Shit,” he mumbled.


	8. Chapter 8

Oscar bolted awake to the sound of alarm bells. He looked over to see Zolf pulling himself upright, gripping his dolphin pendant, his face dark and drawn. When he spoke, his voice shook with rage. “It’s Poseidon,” he said. 

“Yes,” Oscar said carefully. 

Zolf narrowed his eyes. “You knew.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“You _knew.”_

“What do you want me to say, Zolf?”

“How long have you known?”

Oscar sighed. “I wasn’t certain until yesterday. But the curse was unaffected by the shackles, which narrowed the list of potential suspects to those above mortal antimagic devices. And the metaphysical drownings were a dead giveaway, I’m afraid. Your god is not a subtle man.”

“Poseidon is not a _man."_

“No.” Oscar rubbed his eyes. “No, he’s not. But I am. And I may not be particularly religious, but I’m not foolish enough to trifle with a god.”

“I need to...I need to talk to him.”

Oscar felt his heart spasm and clench, and he shut his eyes. _Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ “He’s here,” Oscar said, straining to keep the panic out of his voice. “Zolf, he’s here.” Poseidon wrapped his slippery arms around Oscar’s chest, and the world fell away. 

* * *

_“Fuck!”_ Zolf darted forward and instinctively reached for his dolphin. He heard the crash of a massive wave breaking over the deck and the ship lurched violently, throwing him backwards. The ceiling warped and cracked, and water began raining into the cabin. 

Zolf caught himself and looked up at the ruined ceiling. “So I’ve made you angry again, have I?” he shouted over the wind. “This is between us, _leave Wilde out of it._ This is _my_ fault, not his.”

He stumbled over to Wilde, who lay motionless on the cot. “Come on, Wilde, stay with me.” Zolf stacked his palms on Wilde’s chest and began pumping his heart. Wilde’s ribs buckled and snapped, and Zolf swore. He tilted Wilde’s head back to open his airway and pinched his nose shut, then lowered his mouth and blew air through Wilde’s frozen lips. 

A searing pain gripped the stumps of his legs, and Zolf screamed as he dropped to the floor, his sea legs dissolving underneath him. “Take the legs, take whatever you want from me, I _swear,_ I never wanted any of this!” 

Zolf gripped the edge of the cot and hauled himself onto the mattress. He knelt beside Wilde and resumed the chest compressions, trying to coax the blood through Wilde’s veins. But when he lowered his ear to Wilde’s chest, all he heard was the crush of the storm. 

He shut his eyes and tried to focus his mind as he breathed air into Wilde’s lungs. He needed to find something, anything, some strange power hidden in a deep, forgotten place, because _this wasn’t Wilde’s fault_ and in the days since Wilde strolled back into his life, Zolf had started feeling something like hope for the first time in months.

He could feel Wilde’s heart giving out beneath his hands, and Feryn’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. _Don’t do this to me, Wilde._

 _“You will not take him,”_ Zolf roared. “You have _no right!”_

Wilde was his future, for better or for worse, and Poseidon knew nothing of hope. “Stay with me, Wilde,” Zolf said, pumping Wilde’s chest. “Oscar, I swear, if you die, I’ll never forgive you.” His vision went blurry, and he blinked away tears. “Come _on,_ I need you to stay with me.” 

Zolf pressed his ear against Wilde’s chest, searching for a pulse. “You will not die, I won’t _allow_ you to die.”

Something fierce and bright blazed in Zolf’s core, and he felt the spark of healing energy channeling through his palms and into Wilde’s body. A gentle heartbeat thrummed against his ear as Wilde flickered back to life. 

* * *

Poseidon’s grip was almost gentle as he pulled Oscar through the hull of the _Medea_ and down beneath the waves. The sea was silent. Oscar’s limbs were strangely numb, but he felt no pain, no desperate need for air. 

They dove until the watery sunlight faded away. Bluish light from hideous, alien fish twinkled in the dark, refracting grotesquely through Poseidon’s murky form. Poseidon swept around, and what appeared to be his face twisted like a cyclone. 

_“You would take him from me.”_

Poseidon’s voice was the crash of a shipwreck in a storm, the mournful call of a humpback whale, the roar of a tidal wave, and Oscar’s mind shattered with agony. 

“Come on, Wilde, stay with me.”

 _Zolf. Don’t let me go._

Oscar looked directly at Poseidon, willing his face to remain impassive. “I would ask him to do what he believes is right.”

_“He belongs to the sea.”_

“Zolf Smith belongs to no one but himself.”

“Stay with me, Wilde.” Zolf’s voice broke on the words. “Oscar, I swear, if you die, I’ll never forgive you. Come _on,_ I need you to stay with me.” 

_I’m not afraid to die. But I don’t want to leave you._

Poseidon looked down at Oscar for a long moment. He uncurled his arms from around Oscar’s chest and reached down. The adamantine shackles glowed with the same unearthly blue light illuminating the fish, then shattered like ice. 

_“You will look after him.”_

“Yes.”

Zolf’s voice sounded closer. “You will not die, I won’t _allow_ you to die.” 

Power burned through Oscar’s veins. He shut his eyes and allowed Zolf’s magic to carry him back to the world of the living.


	9. Chapter 9

Zolf is thumbing through _Pride and Prejudice,_ trying to pinpoint the exact moment that Lizzy fell in love with Mr Darcy, when the door to the cellar clicks open. He looks up to see Barnes carrying a tray of food. 

“Hello,” Barnes says quietly. He sets the tray down and slides it through the door, his movements careful and precise.

“Hey. It’s good to see you.”

Barnes is stoic under the best of circumstances, but there’s a heaviness to his shoulders and dark bruising around his eyes. “I wanted to thank you, for—”

Zolf holds up a hand. “You don’t need to thank me for doin’ what needed to be done.”

“I don’t know if I could’ve…” Barnes swallows and looks away. “Just, thank you.”

“Carter was a good man.”

Barnes shakes his head, chuckling, and a faraway look crosses his face. “Carter was a nightmare. But he was my nightmare, you know?” He tucks his hands behind his back, a habit from his navy days that he still can't quite shake. 

Zolf looks at his knees. “Yeah, I know.”

“Have you spoken to Wilde?”

Zolf snaps his head up, a little taken aback by the sudden change in topic. “Wilde? He’s been doin’ the check each night. No idea why, he’s been a bit weird.” He winced. “Well, weirder than normal, anyhow.”

“You should talk. I think I would’ve liked to…” Barnes trails off, his eyes glazing over again. 

Zolf frowns. “You would’ve liked to what?”

Barnes shakes his head, breaking his reverie. “Sorry, it’s nothing. Wilde’s a bit of a nightmare too, you know.”

Zolf huffs a laugh. “Yes, he is.”

Barnes nods and smiles back. “Just think about it, alright?”

“Well, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Zolf gestured at the bars. “Wilde knows exactly where I am.”

“I don’t know if it’s that simple.” Barnes works his jaw and looks as though he’s about to say something, then apparently thinks the better of it. “Well. Good talking to you.”

“Yeah. You too.” Zolf rubs his hands together and looks at the floor until he hears Barnes shut the cellar door. He plugs in his prostheses and waddles over to collect his food. _What was that all about?_

One he’s settled back in on the cot, he opens _Pride and Prejudice_ and resumes his search. An underlined passage catches his eye:

> _No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced._ _But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude—gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection._

Zolf chewed his lip thoughtfully. To be fair, Mr Darcy was a right prick when he proposed. But Lizzie had her own flaws—what was that line? Zolf flipped back to the scene in Bingley’s drawing-room.

> _“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”_
> 
> _“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension._ _I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding._ _My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world._ _I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.” _
> 
> _“That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”_
> 
> _“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”_
> 
> _“And your defect is to hate everybody.”_
> 
> _“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”_

Alright, maybe Lizzy could have been a bit more discerning. But Zolf knows what it’s like to misjudge someone that badly, what it’s like to dig in his heels when he’s backed into a corner. If pressed, Zolf would say he’s a good enough person, but he’s not a very nice man, and he's hardly easy to be around. He’s come to rely on people who tolerate his intolerance and know exactly how to humble him. People like Bosz. Sasha. Wilde. 

Wilde is something else, though. _Bit of a nightmare, indeed._

* * *

The storm had battered the _Medea_ far from shore, and without strong winds the navigator predicted it would take nearly a week before they could reach a port to unload and lick their wounds. Zolf went to the captain and handed in his resignation before she could say a word. She nodded and said he would stay on the payroll until they made port, and Zolf nodded back, not wanting to discuss the matter any further. 

He kept ridiculous hours to avoid seeing anyone, wheeling down to the mess hall before the morning watch to gather enough food for the day. Otherwise he kept to his cabin and his Harrison Campbell novels. He told himself he needed time to think, to figure out what he could do next without his legs and without his god.

Four days after the storm, someone knocked on the door to Zolf’s cabin. When he didn’t respond, there was a soft click, then a crash as Bosz kicked the door open. She tucked a lock pick back into her belt, strode inside, and grabbed his wheelchair. “Get in, loser. We’re going for a walk.”

“No.”

“You should thank me. Wilde wanted to come over on day one, but I held him back, said you needed space.” Bosz crossed her arms. “Well, we gave you space, and you’ve sulked for long enough. Now, up you get.”

Zolf pulled the blanket over his head. “Go away, Bosz.”

Bosz ripped the blanket off, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “When Pabni died, what was the only thing that helped?”

Zolf sighed, remembering the only time he’d ever seen Bosz cry. _She was only 64 years old, I was never supposed to outlive her, she_ promised. Zolf hadn’t known what to say, so he’d offered Bosz a hand and hauled her to her feet. _Let’s go get some air._

“And when you lost your leg, what was the only thing that helped?”

“Whiskey.”

“And also _going outside._ Partly for the physical therapy, but still.” She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Seriously? Don’t be a dick, Bosz.”

“But you look so handsome when you’re angry.”

“Bosz.”

“But you’re starting to smell like shit.”

_“Bosz.”_

“But you’re _throwing your life away.”_ Bosz shoved the chair into the hammock, jostling his arm. “I _know_ you, Zolf. Come on. Back in the saddle. We’ll drink some grog and chuck your driftwood dolphin into the sea, it’ll be a whole moment.”

Zolf shut his eyes. “Just us.”

“Yes. For now.”

“Ok.”

It was well past midnight, and the deck was almost completely silent. They found a spot at the stern of the ship where they wouldn’t get in the way of the night watch. Bosz pulled a bottle of grog out of her bag, bit out the cork, and handed it to Zolf. He took a long swig. He hadn’t eaten since the morning, and the bitter, spicy liquid burned down his throat and went straight to his head.

Bosz frowned. “Hey, take it easy.” She snatched the bottle back and took a sip, then looked at Zolf, her ears pulled flat against her head. “You’re gonna run off again, aren’t you?”

“Nice choice of words there.”

Bosz grimaced. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.”

Bosz twisted the bottle in her hands. “Remember when you left the _Snapdragon?”_

Zolf tried to smile, and Bosz shook her head. “You don’t need to smile if you don’t want to,” she said softly. “It’s just me.”

Zolf swallowed, his throat tight.

“I was so angry with you. ‘Something meaningful,’ my ass. We had something there for a while, you and me and Pabni. Then Pabni died, and you left, and I…” Bosz trailed off. She sat down on the deck and sipped from the bottle. “I hated it, those last few years. I saw her everywhere, and nowhere. I don’t know if that makes any kinda sense.”

Zolf nodded, thinking of Feryn.

Bosz shrugged and handed him the bottle. “I had to leave. I just couldn’t do it anymore. The plunderin’ and all, for what?”

Zolf took another swig of grog and looked out at the stars reflected in the water. He shut his eyes and breathed in the salt air, felt the wind in his hair. He would always love the sea; it was in his blood. 

“I’ve been talking to Wilde these past few days. I’m going with him to Japan.”

“That’s good. You’ll be good for him.”

“He cares about you, Zolf."

_He nearly died._

_"I_ care about you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zolf opened his eyes and yanked the dolphin pendant off his neck. “So. How far d’you reckon I can throw this piece of shit?”

* * *

When Oscar opened the door to his cabin to find Zolf waiting outside, he found he was at a complete loss for words for the first time in years.

 _Breathe. You’re_ good _at this, you can work with anything._ “Zolf.” He smiled, hoping he didn’t look as nonplussed as he felt. “Hi.” _Gods._

“Hey.” Zolf looked up at him expectantly. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Oscar opened the door and Zolf wheeled himself inside. “I wanted to come see you, but Bosz said—”

Zolf cut him off. “Yeah, she had the right of it.”

“Oh. Well, I—”

Zolf shook his head. “I just came to say my piece, and then I’ll leave. I’m not goin’ with you to Japan.”

 _Deep breaths. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ “Will you at least tell me why you’ve had this sudden change of heart?”

“You came lookin’ for me because you had a _use_ for me. Isn’t that what you do? Goin’ around, collectin’ people you can _use?”_

Oscar reeled back, and the room started to spin. “That’s not fair.” 

“You needed me because you didn’t have your magic and now...you don’t have a use for me anymore. You have your magic back, and Bosz is clever as anything, and I”—Zolf gestured at his legs—“I’m a sailor without any legs, and a cleric without a god, and I don’t trust myself with this job. _You_ shouldn’t trust me with this job. I’m worse than dead weight, Wilde, I’m a _liability._ ” 

Oscar felt a wave of panic crash over him, leaving him gasping for air. _Breathe, breathe, breathe. Focus on...focus on..._

* * *

 _“You are not a liability.”_ Wilde fisted a hand in his hair and began pacing around the cabin. “Zolf, I swear to all the gods, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but I put _everything_ on the line to find you. And you owe me _nothing,_ I _know_ you owe me nothing, and I’m sure I don’t deserve your help, but I trust you with my life and with the future of the world as we know it. And, and, and, and yet—” 

Wilde’s chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing. “You call yourself a _liability,_ less than a week after _saving my life?_ I don’t even know what to _say_ to you! What can I possibly say to you that you would want to hear?” He laughed breathlessly. “Imagine that, Oscar Wilde, the intelligence officer, the writer, the bard, whose words are all he has, at a complete loss. Is that what you wanted?” 

Zolf opened his mouth to argue, and Wilde raised a hand to silence him. He was shaking, and his eyes were wide and terrified in a way Zolf had never seen. “Zolf, tell me I did not survive a god’s curse only for you to leave at the first opportunity. _Tell me!”_

“Hey, hey. Hey!” Zolf wheeled over and grabbed Wilde’s arm, tugging him down to sit on the cot. “Look at me, Wilde.” 

Wilde hugged himself, looking everywhere but Zolf’s face. “I can’t, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t—”

“Oscar, I’m here.” Zolf gripped Wilde’s chin and gently turned him to face forward. “Stay with me. I’m not goin’ anywhere, but I need you to stay with me. What do you see?”

Wilde’s eyes were very, very dark. “You.”

“Good, you’re doin’ good. Just stay with me. Deep breath in through your nose.” Zolf inhaled slowly, and Wilde followed, his gaze never leaving Zolf’s face. “One, two, three, four, five. And out through your mouth.” They exhaled together. “One, two, three, four, five. Good.” Zolf dropped his hand. “What else can you see?”

Wilde’s eyes darted around the room. “Uhm. Books. Notes about the simulacrum.” He started panting. “The map of—”

“Whoa, whoa, easy now.” Zolf gripped Wilde’s wrist. “Okay, uhm, let’s try—just, uhm, go ahead and close your eyes. What can you hear?”

Wilde shut his eyes, and his breathing began to slow. “Waves breaking against the ship. Creaking wood. Footsteps. People talking in the hallway.”

“What can you smell?”

“Saltwater. Tobacco. Leather.” Wilde paused, inhaling deeply. “Cedar.”

“What can you feel?”

Wilde gingerly covered Zolf’s hand with his own and opened his eyes. “Zolf,” he said, his voice low and strained. “Please.”

Zolf’s ears burned like fire. “Wilde.” _You nearly died._ He went to pull his hand away, but Wilde gripped him tight. Zolf swallowed hard and let Wilde lace their fingers together. “I—Yes. I’ll stay. If that’s—if that’s what you want.”

Wilde exhaled slowly. “That means the world to me.” Wilde lifted their intertwined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss against Zolf’s knuckles. _“_ You have to know that, Zolf. You _have_ to know that.”

Zolf rested his other hand against Wilde’s cheek, and Wilde leaned into his touch. “I know,” Zolf murmured, stroking Wilde’s jaw with his thumb. “I know.” 

Wilde grasped at Zolf’s jumper, pulling him close. He was so terribly beautiful, and Zolf’s mind went as smooth as the ocean in the eye of a storm.

Zolf tugged his hand free and leaned forward, using the edge of the cot to leverage himself out of his chair and into Wilde’s lap. Wilde fell back and Zolf crawled over him, framing Wilde’s face with his arms. “Just say it, Oscar.”

Wilde threaded his fingers through Zolf’s hair. “Stay with me,” he breathed, and Zolf leaned down and kissed him. 

Wilde flowed like a river beneath Zolf’s body, lush and sinuous and yielding, so vital and alive that Zolf could almost forget that the last time he'd held him close, Wilde’s heart had been cold and silent under his hands. 

Zolf broke the kiss and pulled off his jumper. “What do you want?”

Wilde moaned and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. “Anything. Everything.” He lifted himself onto his elbows, and his shirt slipped down his shoulders. 

Zolf brushed his fingers over Wilde’s delicate collarbone, the fine ridges of his sternum. He recalled the brittle snap of Wilde’s ribs, and something tightened painfully in his chest. 

Wilde tipped his head back, baring the long lines of his neck. Zolf gently kissed his throat, felt Wilde’s pulse flutter against his lips.

_I don’t know how to keep you safe._

He ran a hand down Wilde’s flank. Wilde shuddered and collapsed onto the cot, fumbling with his trousers.

_But I can give you this._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the new rating. Sorry-not-sorry...
> 
> If you want to jump past the explicit content, skip the section beginning with "***," which runs until the end of this chapter.

Oscar has lost track of how long he’s been glaring at the cover of _When Passions Collide_ when someone knocks on the door to his office, jolting him out of his trance. “What is it?” he snaps. 

Bosz pokes her head in. “Hey. Just delivering your daily reminder to _talk to Zolf.”_

Oscar schools any emotion out of his face. “I do talk to Zolf. Every day at midnight, as a matter of fact.”

“No, but like, telling him to strip naked and shining a light on his dick categorically does not count as talking.”

Oscar presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. 

Bosz smirks and points a finger at him, mock-accusing. “You’re trying not to laugh.”

A corner of Oscar’s mouth quirks up. “No, I'm most certainly not.”

“He’s still got your book, you know. Reading the absolute shit out of it. Won’t stop going on about which one’s pride and which one’s prejudice.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not even the point of…You know what? We are not having this conversation. Frankly, Bosz, whether or not Zolf and I are having daily heart-to-hearts is none of your business.”

Bosz flattens her ears against her head. “Just don’t wait too long, okay?” She shuts the door, and Oscar goes back to glaring at _When Passions Collide._ He thinks of Zolf’s smile last night, the pleased, eager light in his eyes. _Did you get my book?_ He sighs and drags the book towards him, snapping it open a little too forcefully.

> _“Excuse me. It’s Jennifer, isn’t it?”_
> 
> _Jennifer swung around and swore. It was that idiot man with the mints from the arcade._
> 
> _“You!” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”_
> 
> _“I’m Richard. I’m a painter.”_
> 
> _“What on earth is there to paint at the fish dock?”_
> 
> _Richard smirked. “You.”_
> 
> _Jennifer groaned and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be daft.” She turned on her heel and started walking away._
> 
> _“Jennifer! Wait!” The man jogged to catch up with her. “I just...Look. Can I buy you dinner?”_
> 
> _Jennifer stopped and turned, eyeing him suspiciously. He sighed. “I owe you. For the—for the incident. In the arcade.”_
> 
> _Jennifer huffed a laugh. "The_ incident? _You mean when you walked right into me like a complete prat?”_
> 
> _Richard spread his hands innocently. “Okay, if I say that I crashed into you in the arcade because I’m an idiot, will you let me buy you dinner?”_
> 
> _Jennifer sighed, thinking of the pitiful handful of coppers in her pocket. It was either dinner with Richard or no dinner at all. “Fine. There’s a pub around the corner. The food is crap but the ale is cheap. Don’t want to be owin’ you no favors.” She glared at Richard and stomped away without waiting for him to follow._
> 
> _Once they had settled in at the bar, Jennifer looked at Richard appraisingly. “So, uh. What’s your deal?”_
> 
> _“I’m a painter. I’m Anna Scott’s apprentice.” He preened a little at that, as though that was someone Jennifer should know._
> 
> _Jennifer shrugged. “Never heard of her.” Richard deflated, and Jennifer felt inordinately pleased._
> 
> _“Well, I’m a painter, and there’s a show in a month. A very important show, and I’m to make my professional debut.”_
> 
> _“So, what?”_
> 
> _Richard leaned forward. “I’d like to paint you, Jennifer.”_
> 
> _Jennifer laughed until she was gasping for air. Richard narrowed his eyes. “I’m serious.”_
> 
> _Jennifer wiped tears from her eyes. “No, no, I’m sure you are. It’s just”—she gestured at her dirty work clothes—“It’s just funny, is all. Also, do you really think I have time to pose for my fucking portrait?”_
> 
> _“No, I know, you wouldn’t have to pose. I’d paint you at the fish dock.”_
> 
> _Jennifer sat back and crossed her arms. “Okay, that’s all well and good, but what’s in it for me?”_
> 
> _“I’ll pay you.”_
> 
> _“How much?”_
> 
> _“Whatever the painting sells for.”_
> 
> _Jennifer scoffed. “What’s a painting go for, a handful of coppers? A couple silver?”_
> 
> _Richard raised a perfect eyebrow. “When Anna’s last apprentice made her debut, her first painting sold for five hundred gold.”_
> 
> _Jennifer bolted upright. “Five hundred gold?!” That’d be enough to buy a trawler with Sam, and maybe even hire a skeleton crew. “Who pays that kinda money for a goddamn painting?”_
> 
> _“Posh people with good taste.”_
> 
> _Jennifer jabbed a finger into Richard’s chest. “You really think you’re good enough to make five hundred gold?”_
> 
> _Richard pushed Jennifer’s hand back and leaned against the bar, smirking. “I think I’m better.”_
> 
> _“And I just gotta, what, let you come to the fish dock and watch like a creeper?”_
> 
> _Richard chuckled. “Basically. But I’d like to get to know you too. Otherwise the painting’s just a”—he waved his hands vaguely—“a picture. There’s no story, no life.”_
> 
> _“Uhm. You first.”_
> 
> _Richard nodded. “That’s fair.”_
> 
> _“Why do you come to the fish dock?”_
> 
> _“My mother was a fisherwoman.”_
> 
> _“In Moorport?”_
> 
> _Richard’s eyes went distant and soft. “No. In Busan, South Korea.”_
> 
> _“Is that nearby?”_
> 
> _Richard cocked his head to one side and smiled quizzically. “Are you joking?”_
> 
> _Jennifer looked affronted. “I’ve never left Moorport.”_
> 
> _Richard shook his head in disbelief. “No, I’m sorry, it’s just...Korea is very, very far away. Quite literally the other side of the world.”_
> 
> _“So what brought you to this shit town?”_
> 
> _A shadow ghosted across his face. “There was some...trouble back home.” He remembered his mother screaming in broken Japanese, the dull crack of the man’s head on the cobblestones. “We needed to leave quickly, and my father has relatives in Lower Flik.”_
> 
> _“The Gnomish quarter? I didn’t know humans lived there.”_
> 
> _Richard shook his head. “They don’t.”_
> 
> _“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise.”_
> 
> _“It’s alright, I take after my mother.” Richard smiled gently and looked away._
> 
> _Jennifer frowned but didn’t press him further. “I was told my father was from Barbados, but he died before I was born.”_
> 
> _“I’m sorry.”_
> 
> _“Why?” Jennifer shrugged and took a swig of ale. “We never met.”_
> 
> _Richard leaned forward and rested his chin on one hand. “Sometimes the things we miss most of all are the things we never had.”_
> 
> _She looked at him shrewdly. She thought of her mother, always tired, always working, shoving Jennifer’s little sister into her arms on the way out the door. “Yes, I suppose I know what you mean.” She drained her pint and set the glass on the bar. “Hey, Jim! Another round?”_

It’s silly; of course it’s silly. It’s a Campbell. But Oscar sees Zolf everywhere in this story—yearning for something lost, searching for connections, building trust. The promise of a happy ending. He thinks of Zolf in a jail cell in Dover, already losing faith in his god, humiliated in front of his new friends, reading Harrison Campbell novels. Who wouldn’t be comforted by the possibility of love, of a happily-ever-after? He recalls Mr Darcy walking beside Elizabeth after she rebuked Lady Catherine, saying, _“It taught me to hope as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before.”_

Oscar smiles around the lump in his throat. _Zolf, darling, you incurable romantic._

* * *

***

Oscar hadn’t snapped like that in over a decade—at least not in front of others—and he’d almost forgotten the humiliation of feeling his composure fracture and crumple as he lost control of his nerves. But Zolf was there, and his voice was sensible and clear, his scent warm and familiar, his hands solid and strong. Oscar let his mind settle around Zolf’s shape, and when he opened his eyes Zolf’s ears were a lovely, vivid red. 

Even with his heart pounding in his chest and his mind reeling, Oscar knew what desire looked like on a man. Zolf’s face was unguarded and a little dazed, his lips softly parted, and he swallowed hard when Oscar laced their fingers together. So Oscar let himself get a little maudlin, let himself raise Zolf’s knuckles to his lips and lean into Zolf’s touch and grab a handful of Zolf’s jumper to pull him close enough to kiss.

Zolf’s mouth burned as hot as the rest of him, and Oscar felt the world click back into place. _You’re_ good _at this._ Oscar knew how to take a man apart with his mouth and his hands, could curl his tongue against Zolf’s teeth in a way that made him groan. He let his shirt unfurl around his shoulders, let his head fall back to display the inviting curve of his neck, and relaxed into the familiar rhythms of falling into bed with another man.

But when Oscar reached between Zolf’s legs, Zolf seized Oscar’s wrists and pinned them over his head. “Not for me,” he said gruffly. “Okay?”

 _Oh._ Oscar felt the balance between them shift and went limp in Zolf’s arms. He nodded. 

Zolf looked at him for a moment. “You’re sure?”

Zolf’s hair was coming loose from its braid, and there were too many layers of clothes between Oscar and the heat of Zolf’s skin. “Yes, I’m sure.” 

Zolf nodded and released Oscar’s wrists, then sat up and pulled off his trousers. Oscar stripped and grabbed Zolf by his beard to pull him in for a kiss. He felt Zolf smile against his lips. 

“You drive me crazy, you mad bastard.”

Oscar laughed. “I always knew you wanted to sleep with me.”

“You’re the worst. Turn over.”

Oscar flipped over onto his stomach, and Zolf straddled his hips. Oscar felt the heavy length of Zolf’s erection pressed against his back and groaned, arching up to look at him. 

Zolf fisted a hand in Oscar’s hair and pressed him into the mattress. “Easy, love.” He dipped down and brushed his lips against Oscar’s ear. “You like that?”

 _“Yes,”_ Oscar hissed. 

“What do you want?”

“Keep talking.”

Zolf ran his fingers through Oscar’s hair and hummed. “You feel so good,” Zolf murmured, rubbing his cock against Oscar’s back. 

Oscar moaned and writhed against the mattress, desperate for friction. Zolf gripped Oscar’s hips with his thighs, stilling him. “Easy now.” Zolf’s beard dragged along Oscar’s back as he kissed down his spine. “That feel good?” 

Oscar made a strangled noise. _“Gods._ Yes. Keep talking. _”_

“Good. You’re doin’ good.” Zolf slid off and moved behind Oscar, nudging his legs open. He gripped Oscar’s hips and pulled him back into his crotch, then reached around Oscar’s flank, running a hand over his belly. When Oscar tried to arch into the heat of Zolf’s chest, Zolf palmed Oscar’s head and shoved him back into the mattress. “Tell me what you want.”

Oscar was tight as a bow string, his cock heavy and aching. “Touch me, Zolf, _please.”_

Zolf wrapped his hand around Oscar’s cock and groaned, pressing his face into Oscar’s shoulder. “Fuck, Oscar, gods, you feel _so good.”_ He loosened his grip and slowly stroked down the length of Oscar’s cock. “How does that feel?”

Zolf’s palm was warm and calloused and strong, and Oscar started panting, desperately fighting the urge to fuck into Zolf’s hand. _“Good,_ it’s _good,_ Zolf, _please.”_

Zolf grabbed a handful of Oscar’s hair and dragged him upright, pulling him into his lap. He gave Oscar another lazy stroke. Oscar gasped, and Zolf’s cock throbbed against his thighs. 

Zolf wrapped an arm around Oscar’s waist and adjusted his grip on Oscar’s cock, swiping his thumb over the tip. “Alright, Oscar?”

Oscar shut his eyes and leaned back, his chest heaving. “Yes.”

Zolf began jerking Oscar’s cock with long, firm strokes, and Oscar’s mind went white with pleasure. 

“Zolf,” Oscar moaned, gripping Zolf’s arm for balance. _“Zolf—”_

“Go ahead, love. I’ve got you.” Zolf curled his fingers tight around Oscar’s cock, and it was too much, Oscar was coming, long and hard and sticky in Zolf’s arms. Zolf stroked him through it until he slumped back, shuddering and exhausted. 

Zolf lay Oscar back on the cot. “Any good?” he asked, brushing sweaty hair back from Oscar’s forehead.

Oscar laughed breathlessly and pulled Zolf down beside him. “Yes, that was good.” He sighed with pleasure and curled into Zolf’s shoulder. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

Zolf grinned and shook his head, settling more comfortably on the cot. “No, that was—you did good, Wilde.”

Oscar clicked his fingers and cast prestidigitation to clean them up. “Gods, I’ve missed that.” He looked up at Zolf through his eyelashes. “You knew what to do, earlier. When I was—When I was panicking.”

Zolf hesitated, then nodded. “They called it shell shock, when I was in the navy.”

Oscar hummed and ran his fingers through Zolf’s chest hair. “They called me hysterical, back home.” He felt his cheeks warm and gave Zolf a little half-smile. “Not sure they’re wrong.”

Zolf caught Oscar’s hand. “You’re not hysterical.”

Oscar crinkled his eyes mischievously. “Well, I know _you_ don’t think so, but anyone with a reasonably developed sense of humour would consider me to be the pinnacle of wit.”

Zolf frowned. “Wilde. Oscar. I’m being serious.” Oscar gently pulled his hand away and smoothed the lines wrinkling Zolf’s brow.

“As am I. I was a highly regarded humourist before I joined the Meritocracy, you know. My gifts are absolutely _wasted_ on you.” 

Zolf paused, searching for something in Oscar’s face. After a moment he shook his head, chuckling softly. “Didn’t think you knew how to be serious.”

“I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.” He nuzzled the side of Zolf’s face. “It’s lovely.”

Zolf only grunted in response, but his ears flushed rosy and warm against Oscar’s lips. Oscar flicked his eyes up to meet Zolf’s gaze and smirked. “So. Is this going to be a problem?”

Zolf raised his eyebrows. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

“Well, I won’t blame you if you fall madly in love with me.” 

Zolf gave a warm, throaty laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Oscar preened. “But of course.” 

“Don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“We’ll see, Mr Smith.”

“Zolf.”

“Zolf.” Oscar gave him his most dazzling smile.


	11. Chapter 11

Oscar finds he can read _When Passions Collide_ for only a few pages at a time before he becomes unbearably sentimental. It’s infuriating. By the end of the day he’s swung from amused to depressed to livid to frustrated and back again more times than he can count, and he feels his nerves unspooling out of his hands as he storms around his office. 

Oscar flips open his pocket watch. _11:32 pm._ He swears and nearly chucks the watch across the room, then forces himself to close his eyes. _Deep breaths. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ He opens his eyes and glares at _When Passions Collide,_ then sinks into his chair and slides the book into his lap.

> _Richard hurled the canvas onto Jennifer’s bed. “It’s not—it’s not working._ ”
> 
> _Jennifer squinted at the painting. It certainly looked like her. Richard had painted her kneeling on the dock, repairing the nets. The sun reflected off the water in honey golden hues, illuminating her face and hair as her fingers tangled in the rope._
> 
> _“It’s very pretty,” she said hesitantly._
> 
> _“You’re not_ pretty,” _Richard snapped. “You’re_ beautiful.”
> 
> _Jennifer flushed in spite of herself. “Well, I think it’s perfectly lovely.”_
> 
> _“It might be nice enough to hang in a hallway, but it’s no masterpiece. It’s not_ you.” _He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t—I don’t think I can do it.”_
> 
> _Jennifer wasn’t sure she understood why Richard was so upset, but on a much deeper level she understood what he needed. Only Jennifer saw Richard like this, all the layers of paint and disdain and caustic wit stripped away to expose his vulnerable, beating heart, on display for no one but her. That knowledge swept through her veins like a forest fire, and she shoved Richard onto the bed with all her considerable strength._
> 
> _“You say you need to know me to paint me. What makes you think you already know me so well?” She lowered her voice and brushed her lips against the shell of his ear. “Who do you think you are?” Her hand moved steadily down Richard’s chest and over his delicate ribs. “You’re not special, Richard. You’re just a man with a paintbrush.”_
> 
> _Richard groaned and reached up to cup the back of her head. “Jennifer,” he breathed._
> 
> _Jennifer ran calloused fingers along the lines of his stomach, and her voice was gentle but firm, as though she was speaking to a frightened child. “Let me.”_
> 
> _“Jennifer, please,” Richard begged, gasping when her hand slipped even lower._
> 
> _“Just let me,” Jennifer murmured. “Who do you think you are, Richard Moon? You may be an artist and an idiot, but at the end of the day you’re just a man.” She gazed down at the man coming undone before her eyes and let her body melt into his in the dark._

Oscar turns the page, and a dusky green stain blooms from the margins. He smooths his fingers over the warped paper. _Sencha, brewed to within an inch of its life, taken without milk or sugar, bitter as poison and scalding hot._

Oscar fists a hand in his hair and lets his head fall back. _What is wrong with you?_ But he’s known the answer to that question for some time now. _Breathe. Breathe._

He shuts the book and snaps open his pocket watch. _11:57 pm._ He gathers his lantern and walks out of his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

When he opens the cellar door, Zolf is staring directly in front of him. His face is dark and unreadable in the shadows, but the heat of his gaze prickles Oscar’s skin as he descends the stairs. _Breathe. Breathe._

“I’ll give you a moment.” 

Zolf reaches forward with his hand outstretched, and Oscar freezes. The warm light from the lantern catches in his furrowed brow, the tight line of his lips, and Oscar feels the room twist around him.

“Look at me, Oscar,” Zolf says gently, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. “Stay with me.” 

> _Jennifer wasn’t sure she understood why Richard was so upset, but on a much deeper level she understood what he needed._

Oscar’s mind settles around Zolf’s shape, and the room goes very still. Zolf shrugs off his shirt and goes to unclasp his trousers. “I’m here,” he says. “Stay with me.” 

_I never should have brought you here._

Zolf lies down on the cot and arches his hips to ease off his trousers. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, but I need you to stay with me. What do you see?”

> _Only Jennifer saw Richard like this, all the layers of paint and disdain and caustic wit stripped away to expose his vulnerable, beating heart, on display for no one but her._

Oscar swallows, his throat so tight that he’s not sure he can speak. “You,” he breathes, and he hears the tremor in his voice. He steps closer and rests one hand on the bars. “Turn around.”

Zolf sits up and turns, looking at Oscar over his shoulder. “What can you hear?” 

Oscar leans his forehead against the bars and shuts his eyes, sucking in a ragged breath. “The hum of the lantern. Water dripping on the cobblestones. Footsteps on the ground floor. The rain.”

“What can you smell?”

“Mildew. Dirt. Dust.” Oscar inhales deeply through his nose, searching for Zolf’s scent. “Saltwater. Tobacco. Leather. Cedar.” _You._

“What can you feel?”

 _Not here. Not now._ Oscar opens his eyes. “Zolf,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t.” He starts to walk away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I miss you,” Zolf blurts.

> _“Sometimes the things we miss most of all are the things we never had.”_

Oscar pauses on the stairs. He thinks of Zolf smiling against his lips, Zolf’s hands in his hair. _I won’t_ allow _you to die._

_I promised to look after you._

Without turning around, Oscar says, as evenly as he can, “I swear, if I have to kill you, I’ll never forgive you.” He lets himself out of the cellar and locks the door.


	12. Chapter 12

It hadn’t taken them long to reach Japan once they left the ship. Oscar could use teleportation now that he’d lost the shackles, so he swallowed his pride and arranged for Einstein to rendezvous with them in Croatia. Einstein explained the situation in Rome, and Oscar felt a wave of gratitude and affection for this strange little man who never seemed to give up hope.

Once they arrived in Japan, Oscar found an inn run by a man who accepted their gold without question and barely batted an eyelash when they asked to install a trapdoor in one of the dining rooms and a cell in the basement. Bosz, who spoke passable Gnomish, befriended some of the locals in the village, including a wild-haired, fast-talking half-elf who was utterly delighted to build a pair of prosthetic legs for Zolf. Oscar reconnected with a few of his old contacts, and Barnes and Carter were brought in a couple months later. 

At times, life felt almost normal this far east. But the rain was a ceaseless reminder of the end of the world, and the work was relentless. People died, leads went cold, and every so often Oscar would knock on Zolf’s door, his heart racing and his mind spinning. Zolf would take one look at his face and pull him inside. “Alright, Oscar?” he’d say. “Stay with me, love. What do you see?”

Zolf didn’t like to be touched in bed, but his appetite for touching Oscar left Oscar breathless with desire. “How does that feel?” Zolf would ask, pulling Oscar into his arms and running rough hands down his back. 

Oscar would bury his head in the crook of Zolf’s neck, breathe in the scent of cedar and tobacco. “Good,” he’d murmur. “So good.”

“Tell me how it feels,” Zolf would say as he kissed down Oscar’s thighs.

“It feels good,” Oscar would gasp, pulling Zolf up and licking into the searing heat of his mouth. “It feels  _ so good.” _

“You feel so good,” Zolf would whisper back, taking Oscar in his hand. “You feel  _ amazing.” _

But Zolf hadn’t come to Japan for Oscar. He’d come to Japan for the mission, and the mission took Zolf into the field for days, sometimes weeks at a time. He returned with new intel and new scars, and then, more often than not, he was quarantined for seven days. 

And there were days when Oscar couldn’t bear to face Zolf, couldn’t bear to face anyone, not when the answer to their problems seemed just beyond his fingertips. If he worked for another hour, another day, another week, maybe he could track down a new lead. Maybe Bosz wouldn’t have to disable that device, Carter wouldn’t have to break into that building, Barnes wouldn’t have to spy on that meritocratic officer. Maybe Zolf could stay at the inn and avoid another scar. 

So Oscar hid in his office, and when that all-too familiar dread closed in around him, he returned to his oldest comfort: his books.

> _ It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. _

Oscar had loved Jane Austen since he was a teenager hiding from his bullies in the library. He’d found kindred spirits in the clever, passionate women living in her novels, and he’d carried his copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ with him from Dublin, to Oxford, to London and beyond. And now, further from home than he’d ever imagined, Oscar turned to Austen like an old friend. 

It only took three chapters, however, before Oscar’s mind went running back to Zolf.

> _ Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it. _
> 
> _ “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.” _
> 
> _ “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” _
> 
> _ “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.” _
> 
> _ “You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. _
> 
> _ “Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.” _
> 
> _ “Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” _

Oscar shook his head, suddenly reminded of his meeting with Zolf all those centuries ago in London. He’d always thought of intelligence work as a kind of theatre. You donned an impressive costume, arranged your props just so, set the stage to give yourself the upper hand, all so the scene would play out according to your direction. Good agents, in Oscar’s experience, were brilliant actors. So he’d done what he always did when introducing himself to a new team. He put on an expensive suit and arranged a scene that allowed him to gauge how they reacted when caught unawares.

Oscar remembered taking one look at Zolf’s flinty, unimpressed face and feeling a flicker of interest.  _ That’s not in the script, darling. But I do so love a challenge...  _

Oscar had never been particularly interested in being liked. Desired, certainly; respected, maybe. But liked? No, that wasn’t an outcome that played to his strengths. He thrived on the social dance that came with handling a worthy adversary. 

_ Would you care to dance, Mr Smith?  _ Oscar had leaned into his charm, laid it on a little too thick, booped Zolf on the nose—tactics that had always successfully confounded his charges in the past. And then Zolf had bashed their heads together, catching Oscar completely off guard. 

From that initial meeting, Oscar realized three things. First, Zolf had no interest in playing by the rules of anyone else’s game. Second, Zolf was profoundly loyal to those for whom he felt responsible—including Bertie, a man Zolf clearly disliked. And third, Zolf despised Oscar Wilde.

Oscar had grinned at Zolf as he dabbed the blood from his nose.  _ Well. Aren’t you fascinating? _


	13. Chapter 13

Bosz is waiting for Oscar in the hall outside the cellar, her eyes glittering in the lamplight. 

“Hey, asshole. Come have a drink.”

“Not now.” He tries to brush past her. 

Bosz grabs his arm. “You’re such a fucking drama queen,” she snaps. 

Oscar presses his free hand to his forehead. “Please, Bosz, I’m in no mood for this.” 

“You think _you’d_ miss him?” Bosz scoffs, and Oscar winces as she digs her claws into his skin. “Zolf has saved your life, what, maybe three times in the eight or so months that you’ve known him. Do you have any idea how many times he’s saved my ass over the past _eight years?”_

Oscar yanks his arm out of her grasp. “It’s not a competition, Bosz.”

Bosz narrows her eyes, her ears twitching dangerously. “Isn’t it? I’m never sure with you.”

Oscar looks away. “No, it’s not,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have a monopoly on trauma, dickhead.” Bosz sighs and rubs her eyes, then rests her hand on his arm. “Come on, it’s been four days. You’ve used up your sulking quota. Let’s get pissed and gossip like old times.” She tugs Oscar towards the bar.

Oscar lets Bosz lead him to a table and sinks to the floor as she pours him a glass of sake. “I—Thanks for this.”

“No worries.” Bosz pours herself a glass and sits beside him, then rests her head in her arms. “I haven’t been sleeping either. What time is it?”

Oscar takes a sip of sake and checks his watch. “Half past midnight.”

Bosz shuts her eyes and groans. “Fuck, I’m too old for this shit.”

Oscar nudges her with his knee. “It’s really not that late.”

“It is for me. It’s that old person thing. As soon as I hit 25, I couldn’t sleep in past six, and then my whole sleep schedule went to shit.” Bosz opens one eye and flicks up an ear. “So...d’you wanna talk about it?”

Oscar sets his glass down, running his fingers around the edge. “Not particularly.” 

Bosz nods. “Me neither.” She picks up her glass and takes a long swig, then stares forlornly into her drink. “Maybe I should take up knitting.”

Oscar laughs. _“Knitting,_ Bosz? Really?”

Bosz glares at him. “What? I could totally knit! I’ve been told it’s very therapeutic. And I feel like the needles could make excellent improvised weapons.” 

“Well, I, for one, think that’s an excellent idea.” Oscar grins and sips his drink. 

Bosz grins back. “What’s your depression hobby?”

Oscar’s smile fades a little. “Reading, I suppose.”

Bosz waves her hand at him as she pours herself another drink. “None of that,” she says, topping him up. “Something new. Like, macramé maybe.”

“What on earth is macramé?”

“No clue. Sounds fun, though. Sort of French, all fancy and shit.” She takes a sip of sake and giggles. “Like you.”

Wilde raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching as he starts to feel the sake warming his veins. “‘Sort of French, all fancy and shit,’” he deadpans. 

Bosz collapses onto the floor, cackling. “Oh gods,” she gasps, fanning her face. “Oh gods, they should put that on your gravestone.”

Oscar downs the rest of his drink, then shoves Bosz gently. “Are you quite finished?”

Bosz sits up, wiping her eyes. “So it’s decided. I’m going to learn how to knit, and you’re going to learn macramé.” 

“And Barnes?”

Bosz cocks her head to one side and sips her drink thoughtfully. “Needlepoint.”

Oscar hums in agreement as he refills his glass. “Agreed. Definitely needlepoint. He has the patience of a saint, that man.”

“What d’you think for Zolf?”

Oscar feels a pang in his chest and carefully takes a sip of sake. “Weaving, perhaps.”

Bosz furrows her brow and nods approvingly. “Ohhh, I love that for him.” She takes a swig of sake. “Can you imagine, with his braids, sitting with a, a, a—” she flaps her hand up and down—“a thing. A loom. Outstanding.” 

Oscar smiles into his drink. “Yes.”

Bosz rests her chin on her hand and looks up at him fondly. “You love him so much, Oscar.”

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “I know.” 

“You need to talk to him.”

“I know. I just—I know.”

Bosz pats his knee. “Sorry to bring it up.”

“That’s alright.”

Bosz bites her lip. “So...Never have I ever...fallen in love with a subordinate.”

Oscar rolls his eyes and sips his drink. “Never have I ever fallen in love with a superior.”

“Oh, fuck all the way off.” Bosz grins and takes a sip. “Never have I ever read the same book more than once.”

 _“What?”_ Oscar turns and stares at her. 

Bosz winks. “Bottoms up, bitch.”

* * *

Something won’t settle in Zolf’s stomach after Wilde leaves that night. The blood is buzzing in his veins, and he’s too high strung to sleep. He can’t get Wilde out of his head, his sunken eyes, the loose fit of his shirt, and Zolf has the unreasonable urge to hurl his body at the bars of his cell.

 _What is wrong with you?_ He does push-ups until his arms ache and sit-ups until his abs burn. He meditates. He glares at the cellar door. Finally, as the night wears on, he pulls out _Pride and Prejudice_ and turns to his last place.

> _The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for  _ me _—it cannot be for_ my _sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”_

“Come on, Lizzy,” Zolf mutters. “You’re cleverer than that.” 

* * *

“Are you stayin’ here tonight?”

Wilde stretched luxuriously under the sheets. “You mustn’t send me away, darling, I’ll catch cold. And you know I can’t bear to be cold anymore. It’s horribly traumatizing.”

Zolf snorted. “You can stay, I’ll allow it.” He leaned away from the bed to fish his pipe and tobacco out of his coat pocket, wincing at the twinge in his right shoulder. 

Wilde sat up, frowning. “Your shoulder. It’s bothering you again.”

Zolf shrugged, then winced again. 

Wilde draped his arm around Zolf’s neck. “Come here,” he said, pulling Zolf into his chest. 

Zolf settled back against Wilde and began packing the bowl of his pipe. “I trained with Carter today, like an idiot.” He sighed as Wilde began working the muscles in his shoulder. “You know that bastard fights dirty.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the way that man grips a dagger. I have no doubt he’s filthy on _and_ off the training grounds.” 

Zolf cast spark and dragged on his pipe. He tipped his head back and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke plume in the air. “S’pose if anyone would know, it’d be you.” 

“Zolf,” Wilde said, delighted. “You’re not _jealous,_ are you?”

Zolf scowled. He wasn’t jealous. He _wasn’t._ “D’you want me to be?” _Gods._

Wilde hummed softly against Zolf’s ear. “Of course I want you to be jealous.” His long fingers found a knot deep in Zolf’s rotator cuff, and Zolf groaned. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Oscar Wilde, poet, spymaster, provocateur. Tell me I haven’t lost my touch.”

“You’re the worst.” Zolf furiously puffed his pipe.

Wilde wrapped his free arm around Zolf’s chest and drew him closer. “You’re lovely,” Wilde murmured, kissing Zolf’s temple. “You know that, don’t you?”

Zolf grunted and blew smoke rings. He _wasn’t jealous._ “Don’t be daft.”

“I mean it.”

“Well, uh...thank you?”

“Bosz is right. You really are the most painfully awkward person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.”

“Oh, sod off.”

“I will do no such thing. I’m exquisitely warm, and you promised I could stay the night. And besides, I’m nowhere near done with your shoulder.”

“Didn’t promise shite—ahhh!” Zolf shut his eyes as Wilde dug his thumb into the knot in his shoulder and some of the tension melted away. “But you can stay. If you want.”


	14. Chapter 14

Bosz eventually heads off to bed around two in the morning. “I’m gonna be up in four hours, whether I like it or not,” she says, standing up a little unsteadily. “An’ you’ve got, like, three hours of brooding ahead of you.”

Oscar shakes his head, smiling gently. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

She nods, yawning. “Anytime.”

Oscar cleans up the glasses and chucks the empty sake bottle in the bin. The sake has left him more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, but he knows he’s still going to struggle to fall asleep. He stops by his office and picks up _When Passions Collide_. 

_You love him so much, Oscar._

Oscar walks upstairs and pauses at the door to Zolf’s room. He hesitates, then lets himself in. 

The room is spartan and neat, just a bed mat on the floor, a small lamp, a desk and chair, and the cedar chest where Zolf keeps his possessions. Oscar lights the lamp, then strips and slides into bed. He buries his face into Zolf’s pillow and breathes in. 

_Saltwater. Tobacco. Leather. Cedar._

Oscar rolls onto his side, pulls the lamp closer, and opens _When Passions Collide._

> _Jennifer handed Richard her spare waders and a poncho. “Thank the gods you’re so tiny.”_
> 
> _“One of the many benefits of being a half gnome,” Richard said, pulling on the poncho._
> 
> _Jennifer looked out the window at the overcast sky and frowned. “We might hit some rain once we get offshore.”_
> 
> _Richard raked his eyes down Jennifer’s body. “Would it be such a bad thing if you got a little wet?”_
> 
> _Jennifer groaned as she gathered her reels. “That was terrible.”_
> 
> _Richard shouldered his bag and held up his hands. “Hey, it’s five in the morning. I’m just warming up.”_
> 
> _“You’re the worst.” She shrugged on her coat, then shoved a tackle box into Richard’s arms. “Off we go.”_
> 
> _Richard smiled eagerly as they began the short walk to the fish dock. “I haven’t been fishing in_ years. _And never in England.”_
> 
> _“Did your mum take you?”_
> 
> _“Sometimes. I was too young to be any help, though. Who taught you how to fish?”_
> 
> _Jennifer shrugged. “I was fourteen and needed a job, so I headed to the docks and got picked up by a trawler. Better pay than scrubbin’ tables at the pub. But fishin’ with a line and all, that I learned from Meera. She worked on the trawler with me for a couple years, before the rheumatism in her hands got too bad. Now she works at the fish market, but she keeps a boat, lets me take it out on my days off so I can earn a few extra coppers on my own.” Jennifer looked over at Richard and grinned. “You should meet Meera. She’s a massive bitch. I think you’d get along.”_
> 
> _Richard grinned back. “I’m sure we would.”_
> 
> _They reached the dock and turned towards the smaller boats. Jennifer stopped at a little white dory and loaded in her supplies, then stepped inside and offered Richard a hand. “You ready?”_
> 
> _Richard took her hand and stepped in a little unsteadily, his golden cheeks flushed with excitement. He took a seat and flashed a mischievous smile. “You’re going to regret this, Jennifer. I’ll never want to return to shore.” The dawn light caught in his warm brown eyes, and he looked so wickedly handsome and delicate in her oversized poncho that Jennifer wondered how she had ever failed to realize he was descended from the fey._
> 
> _“That makes two of us, then.” Jennifer untied the mooring line and began rowing the boat out of the bay._
> 
> _Richard pulled out his sketchbook and pencil. “How many fish do you usually catch when you go out on your own?”_
> 
> _“Depends. If I just go out to catch cod, dunno, I’ll try to fill the net as much as I can. But if I’m out for miskal, like today, that’s one-and-done. Have you ever seen a miskal?” Richard shook his head. “They’re big bastards, nearly as long as we are tall and at least as heavy.” Jennifer eyed Richard’s slender wrists. “Probably heavier, in your case.”_
> 
> _Once they had left the bay, Jennifer laid down the oars and set up the lines. She baited the hooks with mackerel she’d nicked from yesterday’s catch and cast the lines off either side of the boat, coiling the slack under her feet. “And now we wait,” Jennifer said. She peeled off her coat, picked up the oars, and started rowing out to sea._
> 
> _Jennifer was a relatively small woman, but she was incredibly compact, and her muscles flexed and swelled under her worn linen shirt as she worked the oars. Richard began sketching out the broad curve of her shoulders and almost immediately lost himself in capturing the movement of her body._
> 
> _It started drizzling a couple hours after they’d left the shore. Richard tucked away his sketchbook with a sigh, and Jennifer pulled on her coat. “Sorry,” Jennifer said. “I did warn you.”_
> 
> _“That’s alright. I adore the rain. It’s so atmospheric.”_
> 
> _“You’re such a fucking artist.”_
> 
> _Richard winked. “I live for the drama, darling.”_
> 
> _The wind whipped around them, and thick gray clouds bloomed on the horizon. “Time to head back,” Jennifer said, turning the boat around._
> 
> _Before long, the rain was pouring down in earnest. Richard lifted his face to the sky and shut his eyes. Water streamed down his graceful neck, pooling in the hollows of his throat, and he smiled. It had been so long since he’d gotten caught in the rain, and he’d never realized how sensuous it could be, cool water flowing over warm skin. “I love it out here,” he said breathlessly._
> 
> _Jennifer flushed, remembering the feel of Richard’s pulse fluttering under her lips. “So do I.”_

Oscar extinguishes the lamp and sets the book aside. He wraps his arms around Zolf’s pillow and shuts his eyes, letting the steady thrum of the rain lull him to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Wilde wasn’t eating, Zolf was furious, and Bosz was staying out of it. After Carter returned from an assignment and delivered his report, Wilde had locked himself in his office. Bosz heard Wilde pacing late into the night, muttering to himself about Meritocrats and the Shoin Institute. _Not my battle, at least not yet._ Wilde was a self-destructive asshole, but she knew he needed solitude when he got caught in the throes of chasing down a new lead. And at least at this stage, any attempt to reach him would only be met with cold, steely silence. 

Yet every time Wilde lost himself in his work, Zolf doubled down. Bosz watched Zolf bring bowls of food to Wilde’s office only to find them cold and virtually untouched the next time he delivered a meal, and Zolf became more and more volatile as Wilde grew increasingly withdrawn. Well, at least the cooking kept Zolf out of Bosz’s hair. 

Bosz was relieved but unsurprised when Wilde finally emerged three days later, gaunt and exhausted, and asked her and Zolf to come to his office to discuss a new assignment. Wilde walked behind his desk and sat down, running his fingers restlessly around the edge of his scrying mirror. Bosz clambered into a chair, while Zolf leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his face stony and sullen. 

Wilde took a deep breath. “We have to head out into the field tomorrow morning. Carter brought back reports of a group setting up a base about twenty miles from the inn. I have some theories about what they’re up to, nothing concrete, but we know they’re working with Shoin. Carter is in quarantine for another four days, and I have reason to believe they’re affiliated with the meritocracy, so we can’t risk compromising Barnes. So that leaves the three of us to deal with this mess.”

Wilde handed Bosz a file, and she opened it to find a stack of handwritten notes. “There are two people I’m especially worried about,” he said. Bosz scanned the top of the first sheet. 

> _Émile Robineau  
> _ _Species: Human  
> _ _Wizard, specializing in divination. Lawyer and economist._

“I’ve crossed paths with Émile Robineau a few times, before all—” Oscar waved a hand “—this. Most recently in Damascus, about a month before I booked passage on the _Medea._ He was a top aide to Guivres at the time. Ostensibly.”

Zolf pushed himself off the wall and walked over to Bosz’s chair so he could read over her shoulder. “Ostensibly?” he asked. Bosz skimmed the rest of Robineau’s profile, then handed it to Zolf. 

“Right before I left my post, I spent some time researching how far the Cult of Hades had infiltrated the Meritocracy,” Wilde said. “Very far, as it turns out.”

Bosz raised an eyebrow. “Researching,” she deadpanned. “Is that what they call it these days?”

Wilde glanced at Zolf, who was glaring at the paper in his hands. Bosz smirked. 

Wilde smirked back, and a little life sparked in his eyes. “You might say I had to probe rather deeply into the matter.”

Bosz heard the crinkle of paper as Zolf tightened his grip on Robineau’s profile, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. “What’s Robineau’s deal?” she asked.

Wilde’s smirk faded. “He’s a fixer. Extremely high level.” 

“You-level?”

“Let's just say he's formidable competition.” Wilde paused. “I think he may have been at least partly responsible for Guivre’s infection. All signs point to deliberate exposure, and Robineau certainly has the right connections.”

That got Zolf’s attention. He looked up and passed the profile back to Bosz. “What the hell is he doing this far from home?” he said.

“That’s where the second person comes in.” Wilde gestured for Bosz to read the next profile. She glanced at the header.

> _Name: Ormila Niqys  
> _ _Species: Gnome  
> _ _Alchemist. Biochemical engineer._

“Ormila Niqys is from the Institute,” Wilde said. “She engineers mutagens from the blood of magical creatures.”

Zolf accepted the page from Bosz. “Like Guivre,” he muttered darkly.

Wilde nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

Bosz blew air out of her cheeks. “Well. That’s not good.” 

“No, it’s not. Dragonblood is incredibly dangerous under the best of circumstances, but infected dragonblood...well, I don’t know.” Wilde shrugged. “It’s a brave new world. I can only imagine the possibilities.” He leaned back against his chair and crossed his legs. “We need to move fast. I don’t know what they’re planning, or how far along they are. I only have my suspicions. And we can’t find out without an investigation.”

“So Bosz and I leave tomorrow morning,” Zolf said, handing the profile back to Bosz. 

Wilde tilted his head to the side and crossed his arms, regarding Zolf impassively. “All three of us leave tomorrow morning.” 

Bosz stifled a grin. _This should be good._ She watched with glee as Zolf tried to stonewall Wilde for exactly two seconds, then exploded. 

“You’re in no condition to go into the field right now,” he snarled, his face flushing crimson with rage. “What d’you weigh, nine and a half stone? And you haven’t slept in days!” 

“I’m a _bard,_ Zolf, not a melee fighter,” Wilde said coolly. “And I can sleep tonight.”

Zolf pointed an accusing finger at Wilde’s face. “No, you won’t!”

Bosz turned and gave Zolf an incredulous look. _I mean, he will if you help..._

“Zolf.” Wilde’s voice was even, but his eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m joining you on this mission. You don’t have a choice in the matter. I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly aware of my own limits, thank you.” 

_Now kiss,_ Bosz thought.

Zolf glowered at Wilde for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists. He pressed his lips into a thin line and stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

“So,” Bosz said, leaning forward. “You totally fucked Robineau, right?”

Wilde rolled his eyes dramatically and scoffed. “Of _course_ I fucked Robineau.” 

Bosz nodded approvingly. “Nice.” She gathered up Wilde’s notes and hopped off the chair. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get our supplies together and make sure Zolf reads this—” Bosz held up the file “—if you get up off your ass and go pretend to be nice for a few minutes.”

Wilde sighed and waved her away. “Yes, alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Zolf retreated to the kitchen and started preparing an ungodly amount of food. _Arrogant idiot. Self-destructive prick. He’s going to get himself killed and endanger the entire mission._ He stirred the stock on the stove and hurled down the spoon, then stomped over to the counter and began chopping radishes thunderously. 

“Cooking _again,_ Zolf? How terribly domestic of you.” Zolf looked up to see Wilde lounging in the kitchen doorway with a lazy smile. Wilde’s waist was painfully thin, his face pale and drawn, but he held himself like a man without a care in the world, and the sight of him rattled something loose in Zolf’s chest.

Zolf narrowed his eyes and continued massacring the radishes. “Some of us actually eat dinner every day, you know,” he snapped. 

Wilde strode over to Zolf and leaned in close, his breath warm against the shell of Zolf’s ear. “Some of us have insatiable appetites.”

The knife slipped off a radish, slicing into Zolf’s thumb. “For goodness sake,” he hissed, stepping off the stool he used to reach the counter and sucking at the cut.

Wilde knelt to the floor and gently took Zolf’s injured hand in both of his own. Even with lines of exhaustion etched into his face, he looked impish and lovely in the evening light. “Oh, we can’t have that. I can think of far too many clever uses for your hands.” He hummed, soft and sweet, and a mist of silvery light flowed over Zolf’s thumb, knitting the skin back together.

Zolf yanked his hand back. “Coulda done that myself, you know.”

“Do be more careful. I can’t follow you around everywhere fixing your mistakes.” 

_“My_ mistakes? This never would’ve happened if you just stayed out of the kitchen!”

Wilde smirked, and Zolf was suddenly transported back to Hamid’s apartment in London, facing the smuggest man he’d ever seen in his life. “I suppose it _is_ my fault, insofar as you were driven to distraction by my singular beauty.”

Zolf gazed down at Wilde, preening before him on the kitchen floor, and any trace of anger faded away. _I love it when you’re like this._ He blinked, his ears prickling feverishly. _Oh._

Wilde’s eyes sparkled as he traced Zolf’s ears with his fingertips. “Zolf, darling, I believe I’ve _embarrassed_ you,” he murmured. He ran his hands down Zolf’s jaw and gently gripped his beard. “Please allow me to offer my deepest apologies. How shall I make it up to you?”

Zolf grinned like a fool as Wilde tugged him close. He reached out and cupped Wilde’s insufferable face in his hands. “Eat dinner with us tonight.”

Wilde nodded, and his eyes were very, very dark. “You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll indulge you this once.”

“You’re the absolute worst.” Zolf pressed a kiss to Wilde’s forehead, and Wilde’s smirk curved into a soft, delighted smile. “Just the worst.” 

* * *

Zolf alternates between sulking and reading for the rest of the night. It’s not until he reaches the end of _Pride and Prejudice,_ the pale light of daybreak filtering through the tiny window and across the pages, that he realizes why he can’t sleep.

> _Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?”_

Zolf remembers the feel of Wilde’s body melting into his. _Zolf. Will you call me Oscar, then?_ His ears burning like fire.

> _"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation."_

Wilde’s frozen, bloodless lips. Desperation mixed with hope, breathing air into Wilde’s lungs, the faint flutter of life in his chest. 

> _"It is too long ago."_

Wilde tearing at his hair, his face in Zolf’s hands. _Stay with me._ Guiding Wilde’s breathing, keeping him present. Chasing Wilde’s endless desire.

> _"I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."_

Wilde, kneeling before him in the kitchen, running his hands down his face. Gripping his beard and pulling him close. 

> _“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not._ _Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?_ _” _

Wilde, sly and slick and smug as anything in Hamid’s apartment. Drenched in water in the finest hotel in Paris, the barest flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Lounging on the _Medea,_ wearing an ugly suit and a dazzling smile. _I’ve been wasting away without you._

> _"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."_

_I won’t blame you if you fall madly in love with me._

Zolf drops his head back, clutching the book to his chest. “Oh gods,” he whispers. “Oh _no.”_


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I recently read/was forever changed by [ amusensical's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusensical/pseuds/amusensical) wonderful [ Forging a Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079369) series, which made me deeply regret killing Carter but also inspired much of this chapter.

Bosz wakes at 6:00 am sharp the next morning with a pounding headache. “Fuck you, Oscar,” she groans, hauling herself out of bed and stumbling down to the baths. After soaking for an hour and drinking her body weight in water, Bosz feels almost functional. She manages to pull together a cold breakfast and heads down to the cellar. Zolf will probably still be asleep, but she’s got work to do, and he doesn’t mind when she delivers his food early.

Bosz opens the cellar door to find Zolf wide awake, frantically leafing through Wilde’s little green book and surrounded by crumpled paper. His hair has come almost completely undone from its braid, and he clearly hasn’t slept.

“Uh, hey,” she says, walking up to the bars. “You look like crap.”

Zolf jerks his head up, his eyes wide and manic. “I’m in love with him.”

Bosz stares back at him and slowly sets down the tray. _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ “Uhm. Yes.”

“What, you _knew?”_

Bosz rubs her aching temples. _Of course I knew, you dipshit._ “Yes.” 

Zolf covers his face with his hands and makes a strangled noise. “How could I be so _stupid?”_

“...Yes.”

Zolf drops his hands and glares at her, his ears painfully red. “D’you think he knows?”

Bosz has to bite her tongue to stop from laughing. _Oh, Zolf._ “Nope.” Bosz pushes the tray through the cell door and sits on the floor, meeting Zolf’s gaze. “Uhm. I know you’re kinda having a moment right now, but I’m pretty sure you’re having this conversation with the wrong person.”

“He won’t talk to me, he can barely stand to _look_ at me.” Zolf rests his elbows on his knees. “D’you have time to help me with something today?”

“Depends.” _I swear to all the gods, if you ask me to talk to him for you…_ “What’s up?”

“I’m gonna—” Zolf takes a deep breath, then blurts, “I’m gonna write Wilde a letter and I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, Zolf. _Zolf.”_ Bosz clasps her hands together and beams. “No worries, my friend. I can make time.” 

* * *

After dinner, Oscar took a bath and retired to his office. He knew there wasn’t much else he could do to prepare for tomorrow, but he needed to settle the bubblings of stage fright turning over in his stomach. So he lit his lamp and opened _Pride and Prejudice._

> _“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with him, if I were you.”_
> 
> _“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with him.”_
> 
> _“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”_
> 
> _“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and_ _I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."_
> 
> _“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously.  _ _A_ _person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”_

Oscar would never admit it to anyone, but he was very fond of Mary. He always thought Austen treated her a bit unfairly in the narrative. Poor awkward thing, she reminded him a little of himself as a teenager—precocious and bright, but pretentious, even ridiculous. He’d been so desperate to be taken seriously, up through university even. But then he’d grown into his looks and learned that being a little ridiculous could be a great deal of fun. 

Still, Oscar knew he’d always been incredibly vain. Perhaps not quite as vain as Hamid could be _(had been,_ he corrects with a pang), at least not anymore. But he still occasionally cast a glamour when he left the inn, and he never let anyone see him as anything less than composed and competent if he could possibly help it.

With one notable exception, of course.

 _A person may be proud without being vain,_ indeed. Zolf had absolutely zero interest in anyone’s opinion of him—just look at that horrible coat, gods—but he was the proudest person Oscar had ever met. And Oscar often wondered if Zolf’s interest in him was merely a point of pride. After all, Zolf was still a cleric. A cleric without a god, driven instead by a profound need to help others, to be of use, to create the possibility of a better future. Oscar didn’t begrudge Zolf this—who was he to judge someone for capitalizing on another’s desire? But Zolf Smith could be quite the enigma. 

Oscar heard a knock on the door and set his book aside. _Speak of the devil,_ he thought, and smiled.

* * *

Barnes handed Zolf a dish to dry. “You did well with dinner tonight.”

Zolf looked up at Barnes suspiciously as he accepted the dish. “Uhm. Bit of a weird thing to say, but okay. Thanks.”

Barnes shrugged. “It was nice, having Wilde there.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so,” Zolf said gruffly, wiping the dish down.

“You think he’ll sleep tonight?”

Zolf set the dish aside. “Dunno. Hope so.”

“You know, Carter never used to sleep the night before a job,” Barnes said lightly, scrubbing a platter. “Now we go for a run earlier in the day. It helps him relax.”

“Uhm. Okay.” Zolf frowned as he took the platter from Barnes. “Where you goin’ with this, Barnes?”

“Sometimes people just need a little extra help to settle down.”

“Yes, and?” Zolf prompted impatiently.

Barnes hesitated. “Wilde listens to you.” 

“So? He listens to Bosz too. And you, sometimes. Basically everyone except for Carter.”

Barnes smiled slightly at that. “Sure, but Bosz and I wouldn’t have gotten him to join us for dinner.”

“Dunno, Bosz can be _very_ convincin’ when she wants to be.”

Barnes looked at Zolf for a long moment. “I’m pretty sure Bosz won’t be able to help Wilde fall asleep.”

 _Oh._ Zolf rubbed at his ears and furiously dried the platter. “Still not sure I know what you mean,” he lied.

“Alright, Zolf,” Barnes said, and Zolf could hear the grin in his voice. 

After they finished the dishes, Zolf went looking for Bosz. He found her in the stables, preparing their ponies for the trip. “Need any help?” he asked. 

“Nope. We should be all packed. Oh!” She hopped down from the step stool and pulled Wilde’s folder out of her bag. “You gotta read this.” She handed him the file and gave him a knowing look. “And maybe talk to Wilde about it?” 

Zolf glared at Bosz as he snatched the file from her hands. “You been talkin’ to Barnes lately?”

Bosz laughed. “Nahh. You know, every once in a blue moon, I’ll watch Wilde get really worked up—y'know, kinda like the last few days. And then, all of sudden—” Bosz snapped her fingers “—he wakes up all relaxed and...refreshed.” She grinned, showing all her teeth. “Might be nice if he started the trip tomorrow like that. Is all I’m saying.” She waved him away. “Whatever floats your boat, sailor. Just make sure you read that file.”

Zolf walked off, clutching the file and frowning. The next thing he knew, he found himself standing outside the door to Wilde’s office, his palms uncomfortably moist. He wiped his hands on his coat and knocked before he could lose his nerve, then slid the door open without waiting for an answer. 

Wilde sat behind his desk wearing a linen robe, his hair still damp from the bath. He leaned back in his chair, allowing his robe to slip open at the chest, and regarded Zolf with a slight smile. 

“Hello, Zolf,” Wilde said softly. “What can I do for you?”

Zolf swallowed and shuffled his feet. “C’mon Oscar. Time for bed.”

Wilde stood and walked over to the door, his bare feet silent on the tatami floor. “Alright.” He brushed a hand over Zolf’s hair, sliding under his braid to rest against the back of his neck. “Lead the way.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexy stuff in this chapter. Mind the new tags. If you want to skip, stop reading at the paragraph that starts "So instead he reached out..."
> 
> Very minor retcon for anyone reading along—Robineau is now a diviner, not an enchanter.

Oscar wakes up in Zolf’s bed, and for a second he’s so disoriented that he wonders if he’s still dreaming. Then his head starts to pound and the room snaps into focus around him. _Ah. Just a hangover, then._ He groans and rubs his temples. “Fuck you, Bosz,” he mutters. 

He fumbles for his pocket watch and flips it open. _7:14 am._ Not bad. It’s the latest he’s slept for ages. He briefly shuts his eyes, willing his headache to fade, then hauls himself up and pulls on his clothes. He tucks _When Passions Collide_ under his arm and stumbles out the door. 

Oscar runs into Bosz on the way to the bath, and she grins like a madwoman. “What on earth are you so pleased about?” he asks a little petulantly. 

“Nothing!” she squeaks. “Nothing at all!” 

Oscar looks at her quizzically. “You’re being strange.”

Bosz twists her hands and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Nope! Not strange! Perfectly natural!” 

“You did something.” Oscar crosses his arms. “What did you do, Bosz?” 

Bosz’s ears tremble with excitement as she shakes her head. “It’s a surprise,” she blurts, then scampers off down the hall. 

Oscar watches her run off, frowning. _Well. That was odd._

Oscar soaks in the baths for a half hour, then brews a massive pot of tea and forces himself to eat a bowl of rice. He finds himself staring at the ugly covers of _When Passions Collide_ as he sips his tea. When was the last time he took a day off that wasn’t in quarantine? He genuinely can’t remember. 

Oscar pours himself another cup of tea and slides the book towards him, flipping to his place. 

> _When Jennifer fell asleep, Richard got out of bed, careful to avoid disturbing her, and lit a lamp. He sat on the floor and arranged his studies of Jennifer around him. He was looking for movement, for life, for that particular, intense passion that collided with him in the arcade and changed his life forever._
> 
> _Richard touched a sketch of Jennifer rowing the dory, smoothing paper slightly puckered from the rain. There, in the dynamic cords of her neck, the bold lines blending gracefully into fine collarbones. His eyes fell on a study of Jennifer scrubbing the deck. There, the way her collarbones flowed into the majestic curve of her shoulders, her left trapezius muscle more pronounced than the right. He picked up a sketch of Jennifer hauling in the catch, her hands gripping the net. There, the broad, voluptuous swell of her arms, her powerful wrists, her lithe fingers._
> 
> _Richard looked over at Jennifer, who was gently snoring, and smiled. There, in the fullness of her lips, the vivid bronze of her skin, the feather dusting of freckles across the arch of her nose. Her rough hands, her soft cheeks. The warm light in her dark eyes when she looked at Sam or Meera. How she always smelled of the sea._
> 
> _Richard gathered a selection of studies and hung them up beside his easel, then sat before the canvas and started to sketch._

It’s so terribly sentimental, but Oscar finds he’s gripping his teacup, smiling like an idiot. _He knows, Campbell knows,_ his ridiculous mind thinks, and Oscar realises he won’t be able to put the book down until the story ends. 

* * *

Zolf grimaced as he removed his prostheses. He’d spent the morning training furiously with Bosz, then the afternoon training furiously with Barnes, then the evening furiously cooking enough food to feed a small army, and he was exhausted.

He heard the rustle of sheets and turned to see Wilde shrugging his robe back on. “I’ll be back in a minute. I think I’d like a cup of tea.” Wilde padded over to Zolf’s desk and scooped up his hot water bottle. “Can I fill this for you while I’m up?”

Zolf nodded gratefully. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Wilde nodded back and tucked the bottle under his arm. “It’s no bother.” 

As Wilde let himself out, Zolf slid under the covers and opened the assignment file. 

> _Émile Robineau_ _  
> __Species: Human_ _  
> __Wizard, specializing in divination. Lawyer and economist._
> 
> _Affiliations: Ordinateurs, Meritocracy, Cult of Hades_
> 
> _Education: Studied divination at the University of Prague under Henrietta Codswallop. Studied international law and economics at the Paris Law Faculty of the Sorbonne under Francois Henri._
> 
> _Professional history: Former associate at Harkness, Harkness, Darkness, and Sphinx—international trade and investment regulations practice. Former assistant general counsel for banking and finance, Meritocratic Treasury. Former consultant and general counsel for the Ordinateurs._
> 
> _Last known employment: Aide and personal counsel to Guivre._
> 
> _Confirmed member of the Cult of Hades. Worked alongside Henri during the years he developed Mr Ceiling. One of a handful of meritocratic officers with direct access to Guivre at the time she was infected. Continues to associate with the remnants of the Meritocracy in Europe. Likely maintains access to Guivre._
> 
> _Arrived in Hiroshima approximately two weeks ago, travelled to Izumi several days later. Objective unknown, but has met with several agents from the Shoin Institute, most notably alchemist Ormila Niqys, a lead researcher in the Institute’s biochemical engineering department known for her work developing mutagens from the blood of magical creatures._
> 
> _No known combat training, but indirectly linked to the disappearance of multiple meritocratic agents and persons of interest, including Barret Racket._

Zolf read through the short stack of Wilde’s notes, then turned back to Robineau’s profile. He rubbed his lip thoughtfully, frowning at the page. _Linked to the disappearance of multiple meritocratic agents._

He looked up as the door slid open and Wilde stepped inside, holding a steaming cup of tea and the hot water bottle, wrapped in a towel. He knelt down beside the bed and handed Zolf the bottle.

“Cheers,” Zolf said, sliding the bottle over his legs. He felt the heat curl around his legs and sighed with relief. 

Wilde sipped his tea, and Zolf caught the warm, nutty fragrance of roasted barley. “Any thoughts on the file?”

Zolf paused and looked down at the profile. “D’you think Robineau cursed you?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“That’s not really his area of expertise. He’s a diviner, not a necromancer.”

“Sorry, I s’pose I should’ve said—d’you think Robineau had a hand in cursing you?”

“Yes.” Wilde hesitated, took another sip of tea. “I think he’s the one who sourced my blood.”

Something cold and hard twisted in Zolf’s stomach. “What did he do?” 

Wilde set his tea aside and wrapped one hand around Zolf’s wrist, gently tugging Robineau’s profile out of his grip with the other, and Zolf realised he had reflexively clenched his hands into fists. “Robineau didn’t dirty his hands with my blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. I believe he used his position to invoke laws that authorise the Meritocracy to confiscate evidence that might be traced to intelligence officers. And I’ve bled all over Europe. It couldn’t have been particularly difficult to find a sample.” 

Zolf shook his head. “That doesn’t make him any better,” he snapped.

“No, it makes him worse,” Wilde responded wearily. He dropped Zolf’s wrist and rubbed his brow. “Don’t snap at me, Zolf. I’m not trying to defend Robineau. I’m trying to help you understand why he’s such a threat. I know at least as well as you that power is far more dangerous than any conventional weapon.”

Wilde looked so serious and tired in the lamplight, and Zolf was afraid to speak, afraid he would say something idiotic and terrible that he couldn’t take back. 

So instead he reached out and cupped the back of Wilde’s head. “Come here,” he said, and the roughness in his voice surprised him. But then Wilde slipped into bed, melting against Zolf and tucking his face into Zolf’s neck, and Zolf knew he’d said the right thing. Zolf wrapped his other arm around Wilde’s waist and pulled him into his chest. “You drive me crazy,” Zolf murmured into Wilde’s hair. “I don’t know what to do with you. You drive me absolutely mad.”

Zolf felt Wilde smirk against his neck. “In the worst way, I hope.”

“In every way.” Zolf untied Wilde’s robe and ran a hand over his chest and down his ribs. Wilde groaned, and Zolf grinned as he felt Wilde’s cock swell against his thigh. “What was that you said about insatiable appetites?” Zolf pushed Wilde’s robe off his shoulders, kissing his collarbone.

“Yes, that was the _whole point,”_ Wilde hissed, clutching at Zolf’s shirt and grinding against his leg. 

Zolf gripped Wilde’s hips and pinned him against the bed. “Easy, love.” 

Wilde’s head fell back against the pillow, his dark hair stark against the white linen. Zolf stroked the side of Wilde’s face, brushed a thumb over his flushed cheeks. “Look at you,” he breathed. Wilde’s eyes fluttered shut and he turned into Zolf’s touch, his lips warm and lush against Zolf’s palm. “Just look at you.” 

Wilde inhaled sharply. “Zolf.” 

Zolf lowered himself until he could feel Wilde’s breath on his face, and Wilde arched up into his chest. Zolf pushed Wilde’s shoulders down and softly brushed their lips together. “Easy,” he whispered into Wilde’s mouth. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Wilde nodded, and his cock throbbed against Zolf’s hip. 

Zolf ran his hands down Wilde’s arms and laced their fingers together. “Promise me something.”

Wilde gave him a long, searching look. “Yes.”

“Promise you’ll let me drown Robineau in a bucket.”

Wilde chuckled warmly against Zolf’s lips. “Maybe. If you can get your hands on him, and if we don’t need him for questioning.”

“Alright, fair enough.” Zolf kissed Wilde gently, and Wilde let out a frustrated moan. Zolf released their hands and pushed himself up so he was kneeling over Wilde. “So _impatient,_ love,” he murmured, loosely cupping Wilde’s jaw. Wilde whined and Zolf kissed him again, delicately flicking his tongue between Wilde’s lips. “Tell me what you want.”

“Kiss me,” Wilde gasped. “Please.”

Zolf kissed him, long and slow and soft, licking lazily into Wilde’s mouth. “Like that?”

“Yes, I don’t know, don’t stop.” Wilde reached up and fisted Zolf’s beard, pulling him down. 

Zolf grinned as he stroked Wilde’s hair. “You mad bastard,” he said, and let Wilde kiss him, let him tangle his fingers in his beard and moan into his mouth and frantically rub his cock against Zolf’s thighs. 

Eventually Zolf pushed Wilde back down into the bed and collapsed against him. “Does that feel good?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yes, Zolf, it’s good, it’s _so good.”_

Wilde writhed under the weight of Zolf’s body, and Zolf hauled himself up on his arms. He dipped his head down and pressed a line of kisses along Wilde’s chest. “What do you want?” He looked up to meet Wilde’s gaze. “Do you want my mouth?”

“Yes, Zolf, _please.”_

Zolf nodded and Wilde’s hand curled around the back of Zolf’s head, pulling strands of hair out of his braid. Zolf kissed down Wilde’s stomach and over his hips, then settled between Wilde’s thighs. “Alright, Oscar?”

Wilde nodded and grinned down at him. “Yes.”

Zolf grinned back. “Good,” he said, and swallowed him down.

Wilde cried out, his fingers twisting tight in Zolf’s hair. Zolf groaned around Wilde’s cock and pulled up, dragging his tongue along the shaft. He flicked his eyes up to look at Wilde and dropped down again, eliciting a shuddering moan. 

Zolf pulled off, and he could feel the vibrating tension in Wilde’s body as he slid a hand up Wilde’s thigh and over his stomach. “Is that good?” 

Wilde’s hips jerked up and he clawed at Zolf’s scalp. “It’s good, Zolf, you’re _so good,_ please, don’t stop, gods.”

“Gods,” Zolf rasped, palming the base of Wilde’s cock. “You feel _so good.”_ He took Wilde back into his mouth and curled his tongue around his cock, savoring the salty tang of his skin, the potent heat of his desire. 

Wilde moaned, fisting both hands in Zolf’s hair and grinding into his mouth. “I’m not going to—ahhh—I’m not going to last.” 

Zolf hummed and relaxed his jaw, letting Wilde slide his cock all the way to the base of his throat, then pulled back slowly. He took in Wilde’s matted hair, the rosy flush blooming across his chest, and Zolf knew he’d never get enough of Wilde.

He pulled off, panting. “D’you want to come?”

Wilde licked his lips and sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

 _You feel so good. Just a little longer._ Zolf swirled his tongue over the tip and brushed his lips slowly down the length of Wilde’s cock. Wilde whined, low and desperate, and Zolf gazed up at him. 

“Go ahead, love.” Zolf swallowed him back down and Wilde came with a muffled shout, pinning Zolf’s head to his crotch and fucking up into his mouth. Zolf moaned and sucked him through it until Wilde shuddered and collapsed against the bed.

Zolf swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Any good?”

Wilde laughed weakly and stroked Zolf’s hair. “Yes, it’s always good.” He slumped back against the pillow. “You’re _very_ good.”

Zolf crawled up the bed to lie next to Wilde and grinned at him. “Nahh. You’re just easy.”

 _“So_ easy.” Wilde curled up against Zolf, loose and pliant and incandescent with pleasure. “So warm…so lovely,” he drawled, and he dropped his head heavily against Zolf’s shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. Zolf reached across the bed, careful not to disturb Wilde, and extinguished the lamp. He lay back and shut his eyes, listening to the slow, gentle rhythm of Wilde’s breathing and trying not to think about the days ahead.


	18. Chapter 18

Per usual, Oscar’s internal clock woke him shortly after dawn. He blinked groggily and rubbed his eyes, his head foggy with sleep. Zolf was already sitting up in bed, combing his hair. 

“Good morning,” Oscar croaked. 

“Mornin'.” The comb snagged on a knot, and Zolf grimaced as he picked it loose. “Sleep well?” 

Oscar hummed and stretched languidly. “You have no idea.” He reached up and ran his hand through the ends of Zolf’s hair, white as moonlight and coarse as a horse’s mane against his fingertips. “Your hair’s gotten so long.” 

Zolf combed his hair back behind his ears. “Just haven’t really gotten around to cuttin’ it since I left England.”

Oscar draped his arm around Zolf’s waist. “It’s lovely.”

Zolf grunted and set his comb aside. Oscar watched, fascinated, as Zolf picked up a wide lock of hair at his right temple and started plaiting a tight, even braid along the side of his head. His fingers wove through his hair at a rapid clip, precise and automatic. “Where did you learn to plait your hair like that?” 

“It’s somethin’ you learn as a kid, at least where I’m from.” Zolf ended the braid at the nape of his neck and began plaiting the other side of his hair. 

“Did your parents teach you?” Oscar asked, pushing himself upright.

A shadow crossed Zolf’s face. “My brother, mainly.”

Oscar frowned. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” He picked up Zolf’s comb and grit his teeth as he tried to disentangle the matted disaster of his hair. Sleeping with Zolf always gave him the most ridiculous bedhead. “What’s his name?”

Zolf looked away as he finished his second braid. “Feryn.” He started plaiting the rest of his hair at the crown of his head, weaving in the loose ends of the two smaller braids as he went. 

Oscar dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to loosen some of the larger knots. “Does he still live in the West Country?” 

Zolf shook his head as he tied off the braid with a leather cord. “He died.” 

Oscar rested a hand on Zolf’s knee. “I’m sorry.”

Zolf turned back to face Oscar, his eyes a little distant. “S’alright. It was a long time ago.” He reached over and swiped his comb out of Oscar’s grip, then pulled himself up on his knees and started combing Oscar’s hair. “You’re a mess, love.”

Oscar preened under Zolf’s ministrations. “And whose fault is that, do you think?”

“Mine, I s’pose,” Zolf said, sounding chuffed with himself. The comb caught in a particularly vicious snarl, and he gently worked the knot loose with his fingers. “Am I hurting you?”

“Mmmm. Not at all.” Oscar leaned into the shivery pleasure of Zolf’s hands in his hair, and his eyes drifted shut. 

Zolf continued his work until the comb slipped easily through Oscar’s hair and Oscar was practically catatonic with bliss. “C’mon Oscar,” Zolf said, briskly rubbing Oscar’s shoulders. Oscar blinked his eyes open, and Zolf moved to put on his prostheses. “Time to get goin’.”

* * *

> ~~_Oscar,_ ~~
> 
> ~~_Dear Oscar,_ ~~
> 
> ~~_Hi Oscar,_ ~~
> 
> ~~_Hello,_ ~~
> 
> ~~_Hey,_ ~~
> 
> _Oscar,_
> 
> ~~_How are you?_~~ ~~_How are things going up there?_~~ _~~I hope you’re taking care of yourself.~~ I hope you’re doing alright. _~~_I worry about you all the time._~~ ~~_Are you eating?_~~ ~~_The last time I saw you it looked like you weren’t eating._~~ ~~_I know you’re not sleeping._~~ _I heard Bosz got you drunk, so that’s good I guess._
> 
> ~~_I think I love you._~~ ~~_I love you._~~ ~~_I’m in love with you._~~ ~~_I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you._~~ ~~_I just realized that I’m in love with you._~~ ~~_I_ _finally figured out that I’m in love with you._~~ ~~_I kind of feel like we might be in love but I can never tell with you_ _._~~ ~~_Why do I love you, you infuriating prick?_~~
> 
> ~~_Do you ever wonder why we sleep together but never really talk about it? Is that something you do with all the people you sleep with? That’s not something I’ve really done before and I’ve been feeling a bit weird about it, to be honest._ ~~
> 
> ~~_All I want to do is spend more time with you._~~ ~~_I feel like I never have enough time with you._~~ ~~_I just want to take care of you._~~ ~~_I wish you’d let me take care of you._~~
> 
> ~~_Am I making a huge mistake?_ _I don’t think it’s a mistake to love you._~~ ~~_I know it’s not a mistake to love you._~~ ~~_I_ _don’t want loving you to be a mistake._~~

“How’s the letter going?”

Zolf starts. “Hmmm?” He looks up to see Bosz standing at the gate with a bowl of steaming water and a flannel. “Uhm. Not good, to be honest.”

Bosz sits down, pushing the bowl into the cell. “Why don’t you take a break? Wash your face, fix your hair, and talk to me.”

Zolf sighs. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” He plugs in his prostheses and picks up his comb, then limps over to the cell door and folds himself to the floor as gracefully as he can. “I’m just not a writer, Bosz.” 

Bosz hesitates and chews on her lip, and Zolf knows she wants to say something that she shouldn’t. After a long moment, she says, “I really don’t think that matters.”

Zolf pulls off his shirt and splashes water on his face. He frowns at her, water dripping from his beard. “What are you keepin’ from me?” Zolf holds out his hand for the flannel, and he grins as Bosz’s ears start to tremble. “You’ve always had the absolute worst poker face.”

Bosz gives Zolf a slightly deranged smile as she hands him the flannel. “I know! I’m just really, really excited about this, is all.”

Zolf shakes his head. “Alright. Whatever you say.” He dunks the flannel in the bowl and smooths it over his face and neck. “So tell me. Why doesn’t it matter that I’m an inarticulate, bumbling idiot? Particularly given that Wilde is, in fact, an actual professional writer?” He sets the flannel aside and cups his hands inside the bowl, dumping water over his head.

“I mean, we all know you’re not a writer, and that’s ok. You’ve got plenty of other redeeming qualities. You’re a great cook! You’re terrific at helping Wilde, ahem, sleep.” Bosz winked, and Zolf glared at her through the bars. “Also, you low-key _challenged a god_ to save Wilde’s life.”

Zolf snorts as he starts combing the water through his hair. “I’m not completely blind. I know Wilde at least likes me. I just…” Zolf trails off, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t want him to think I’m stupid.”

Bosz scrunches her tunic in her hands and shakes her head emphatically. “I can promise you that Wilde does _not_ think you’re stupid, and he will _not_ think your letter is stupid. Just try to be honest with him. I think he’d appreciate that more than you know.”

“Well, I’m hardly plannin' to _lie_ to him about anything,” Zolf replied, loosening a tangle of hair with his hands. 

“No, I mean…” Bosz purses her lips. “Look, Zolf, I say this with a lot of love, but you’re totally emotionally constipated.” She held up her hands. “And I get it! I’m not exactly in touch with my feelings, either. But I’m also not the person writing a fucking _love letter.”_

Zolf sets his comb down, looking at Bosz thoughtfully. “How did you tell Pabni that you loved her?”

Bosz covers her face with her hands and groans. “Oh gods, it was so stupid.”

“Alright.” Zolf grins. “C’mon Bosz, out with it.”

Bosz uncovers her face and rests her chin in her hands. “Ok. So, we started fucking like a couple weeks after I joined the _Snapdragon._ Cuz, you knew Pabni, she saw something she wanted, she just went for it. And I told her at the beginning, y’know, I think you’re great. I think you’re badass and brilliant and just, so great. But I haven’t really done anything like this before, so let me set the pace, ok? I’ll tell you when I’m in love with you.” 

Zolf starts plaiting his hair into a simple braid at the nape of his neck, and Bosz holds up a hand. “Wait,” she says. “You should do your battle braids.” 

Zolf looks at her, bewildered. “My _battle braids?”_

“You know—” Bosz sweeps her hands along the sides of her head “—the two braids that keep the hair out of your face. The way you do your hair when we go out into the field.”

“Oh. Why?” 

“It’s hot.” Bosz smiled wickedly. “And Wilde likes it.”

“What? He said that?” Zolf combs his hair out with his hands and lets it cover his ridiculous ears.

Bosz shrugs. “Not in so many words, but have you seen the way he looks at you when you braid your hair like that?” 

“Uhm. No,” Zolf says thickly. He starts plaiting the hair at his right temple. “As you were?”

“So. We’d been fucking like rabbits for, oh, three weeks or so. And one day we were making out, and Pabni was like—” Bosz giggles and covers her mouth “—oh gods, she’d kill me for telling you this. Pabni just stopped all of a sudden and looked at me and said, all in one breath, ‘There’s something I really want to tell you but I’m not supposed to tell you because you’re supposed to say it first.’”

Zolf raised his eyebrows and laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. Pabni had been one of the toughest people Zolf had ever met, but she had a massive weak spot for Bosz. “She always was mad about you.”

“Yeah,” Bosz said softly, fiddling with the hem of her tunic. “Anyways, about a week later, I ran into her during the night watch, and she pulled me into a corner and kissed me. I remember looking at her and getting tunnel vision and thinking, gods, this woman, this incredible woman, what am I supposed to do with you?”

Zolf nods and starts his second braid. He remembers pulling Wilde into bed, his soft hair against his lips. _I don’t know what to do with you. You drive me absolutely mad._

“That night I slept in her bunk,” Bosz says. “I had this dream where I told Pabni I loved her, and she kept patting my arm in this really condescending way and saying, ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And I was so angry. I was like, _‘Yes I do,_ you have no idea, I love you _so much!’"_

Zolf plaits the rest of his hair and ties it back, then leans forward on his knees, nodding encouragingly. 

“I woke up the next morning, and even though I knew intellectually that I’d been dreaming, I was still completely pissed off. So I shook Pabni awake, shouting, ‘I think I’m in love with you!’” Bosz chuckles. “Like, ‘Yeah! That’ll show you!’ And Pabni just smiled at me, this huge, open smile, and said, ‘Really?’ Like she...” Bosz shuts her eyes for a moment and shakes her head, takes a deep breath. “Like she couldn’t believe it.” 

“Bosz,” Zolf says gently. 

Bosz opens her eyes and shakes her head again, and Zolf knows to drop it. “So yeah. That was it.”

Zolf smiles at her. “That’s not stupid at all.”

“Yeah.” Bosz sighs and rubs her face, then smiles back. “I know. And you’re not gonna be stupid either, dumbass.” She holds out her hand. “Now hand over your letter so we can laugh at what you’ve written so far.”


	19. Chapter 19

Oscar spends the morning reading and working through his pot of tea. Once it’s finished, he stands up and puts the kettle on to make another. He reaches for the lapsang souchong he usually drinks, then hesitates and picks up the jar of sencha instead. He carries his pot back to the table and sinks to the floor, pulling _When Passions Collide_ towards him to read while he waits for his tea to brew.

> _Richard led Jennifer around the easel, and she sucked in a breath._ Oh.
> 
> _In the painting, Jennifer stood in Meera’s little white dory, braced against the line in her hands. The dull red back of a miskal breached the surface, the ocean churning as it struggled against the line. Jennifer could see the ache in her arched back, the tension in her core, and the muscles in her shoulders burned sympathetically from the strain. Storm clouds swirled overhead, though her face gleamed with a sheen of sweat. Her teeth flashed in a stubborn grimace, bright white against her tawny brown skin._
> 
> _“What do you think?” Richard asked softly._
> 
> _Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, unable to speak. She remembered the static, angelic prettiness of the first portrait, remembered Richard looking at her and saying, “You’re not_ pretty. _You’re_ beautiful.” _She had never thought of herself as beautiful before, and she wasn’t sure she ever would. But in Richard’s painting she was extraordinary, a woman who could fight the ocean with her bare hands and win. It was a vision of the person she had always aspired to be, someone strong and capable, courageous and resilient. A fisherwoman, a force of nature, a survivor._
> 
> _She felt the warmth of Richard’s hands on her face. “Jennifer,” Richard murmured. “Look at me.”_
> 
> _Jennifer opened her eyes, blinking away tears. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered._
> 
> _Richard smiled, his eyes bright as he brushed a thumb over her cheek. “I know.”_

Oscar pours himself a cup of tea and shuts his eyes, breathing in slowly. He picks up his teacup and raises it to his lips. Smells the sharp, vegetal aroma, feels the heat biting into his palms. He takes a sip. _Sencha, brewed to within an inch of its life, taken without milk or sugar, bitter as poison and scalding hot._

“Hello, Oscar.” 

Oscar opens his eyes and looks up to see Barnes standing over him, his arms tucked behind his back. “Hello, James.” Oscar smiles and gestures for Barnes to sit down. 

Barnes sits down across the table and smiles back. “It’s good to see you out of the office.” 

“It’s good to see you too,” Oscar replies, shutting _When Passions Collide._ “Can I offer you a cup of tea?” He takes a sip of his tea and wrinkles his nose delicately. “Only if you don’t mind that it’s been horrendously over-brewed, of course.”

Barnes chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’s alright. I appreciate it though.”

Oscar sets his cup down and tilts his head to the side. “How are you doing?”

Barnes takes in a deep breath, then exhales slowly, his eyes drifting to a point over Oscar’s shoulder. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright.”

Oscar nods. “Of course.” He feels relieved, then immediately guilty. “I just...let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Barnes refocuses his gaze and looks Oscar in the eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me,” Barnes says. “I’ve lost plenty of men before.”

“That’s not going to stop me from worrying about you,” Oscar replies, frowning. “But I understand what you mean.” _I trust you to carry your grief with fortitude and grace. I know it’s unfair, but you’re strong, and you’re brave, and I trust you. I hope you trust me too._

Barnes regards Oscar thoughtfully for a long moment, then nods. “Alright.” He stands up, tucks his hands behind his back, then hesitates. “I still think you should talk to him,” he says briskly before hurrying away.

Oscar shakes his head, smiling wistfully to himself, and returns to Zolf’s book.

* * *

Zolf grinned at the sight of Wilde sulking on his horse, wearing a hideous oilskin cloak. Wilde was like a cat in many ways. He loved attention, he was obsessed with being clean and warm, and he despised getting wet. This trip was going to be his worst nightmare. 

Bosz left Wilde alone for the first hour, but eventually started bouncing in her saddle from boredom and anticipation. She rode up next to Oscar and gestured for Zolf to flank her other side. “So,” she called up to Wilde through the rain. “Now that we’ve had a good sulk, should we go over the plan?”

Wilde sighed extravagantly. “Yes, fine. Do we all understand the objectives?”

Bosz nodded. “Kidnap Robineau, obtain any information about the mutagens that Niqys is developing.” 

“Precisely. Robineau is the first priority.” Wilde glanced sharply over at Zolf. _“Do not kill him._ We need him alive for questioning. Einstein is on standby to teleport Robineau back to the Harlequins’ base. No threats, no torture, no heroics, if we can absolutely help it, alright? We’re not trying to close this loop ourselves. It’s not our turf.”

Zolf grunted and resolutely kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. 

“Zolf. Have I made myself clear?”

Bosz glanced between the two of them, eyebrows raised. “Seriously, Zolf?” she muttered under her breath.

Zolf scowled down at her. “Yes, fine, sure.”

Wilde turned to face forward and sat a little straighter in his saddle. He looked sidelong at Zolf and smirked to himself. “Alright. If you’re sure.” 

_Self-satisfied dick._ “Yes, Wilde, I’m sure,” he snapped. 

Bosz let out a muffled squeak and cleared her throat. “Uhm. So. We’re fairly sure we know where Robineau and company are, but we need to make sure, right?” she prompted.

“Right,” Wilde said. “We know they’ve set up shop in a local inn, but Izumi is large enough to offer several options. I believe it’s an inn located at the northeastern edge of town. Since we haven’t had anyone verify from the ground, that’ll be our first order of business. Once we confirm the location of their base of operations, we’ll head inside.”

The trip to Izumi took most of the day. The rain left Wilde waspish and petulant, and while Zolf and Bosz were used to working in cold, damp weather from their years at sea, both of them hated riding. So most of the trip was spent in sullen silence, which suited Zolf just fine. They stopped at a Gnomish village a few miles outside of Izumi and arranged to stable their mounts, then walked the rest of the way through the surrounding forest. 

By the time they reached the outer edge of the forest, it was late in the evening. They found a spot under a boulder that offered limited cover from the rain and stopped to eat and regroup. “Good timing,” Bosz observed, consulting a map of Izumi. “We’ve got about two hours til full darkness. So I’ll use that time to go scout out the perimeter, make sure we’re in the right place, and figure out how to get inside.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Zolf said.

Bosz snorted and shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. You’re heavy and loud and generally useless at this kinda thing.” 

Oscar hefted his crossbow. “I’ll come with you. I can stay out of sight and watch your back. Maybe try to monitor any patrol patterns.” 

Bosz nodded, and Zolf sighed, resigned. “Alright. Makes sense. I’ll sit tight at the edge of the forest.” 

Zolf watched them walk away, and for a second he had an intense urge to grab Wilde’s wrist and yank him back. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. _C’mon Zolf. This isn’t his first time in the field._ Wilde had been doing intelligence work all over the world for years before Zolf got involved. 

Still, Zolf’s nerves were on high alert. He could see the edge of Izumi on the horizon, about a half mile off, and he watched as they disappeared out of sight, slinking into the shadows. Zolf tightened his grip on his glaive, still scarred by Wilde’s gross incompetence in Paris, his hollow eyes and haggard face from the night before. _But he’s not drugged,_ Zolf reminded himself. _He actually slept last night. He’s the best in the business at what he does. And he’s got Bosz and me to run interference._

After about half an hour, he heard something rustle in the trees behind him. He snapped to attention, sweeping around and casting his glaive aflame. A human woman with a shortbow darted into view, loosing an arrow. Zolf ducked and heaved forward, slashing his glaive in an outward arc. But the forest was dense enough to limit his mobility, and the woman stepped easily out of range.

She hurled a small sack at Zolf’s chest and it exploded on contact, spreading thick, sticky tar over his body. Zolf tried to move and stumbled forward, falling onto one knee. He felt a sharp pain, then a strange, tingling numbness, as an arrow struck his back and his vision started to fade. 

Zolf growled and struggled against his restraints, forcing his eyes to stay open. He shot an icicle at the woman, hitting her squarely in the abdomen. She cried out and notched an arrow, taking aim and hitting Zolf’s shoulder. Another human and two gnomes dropped down from the trees, and Zolf felt his muscles give out as he slipped into unconsciousness, his glaive thunking to the forest floor beside him.

* * *

Bosz ducked into the alley where Oscar was hiding, and Oscar knelt down to her level. “This is definitely the right inn. I just came from around the back and saw a super sketch ‘delivery,’” Bosz whispered, using air quotes. “How many grocers carry shortbows and tanglefoot bags while delivering eggplants? And it’s not heavily fortified, but they have plain clothes guards at regular intervals around the perimeter.” 

Oscar nodded. “I noticed at least two from my vantage point—the cabbage seller and the woman with the broom.” 

Bosz smirked. “Should be fun. Let’s head back to Zolf and do a full debrief, figure out how to break in.”

They walked briskly back towards the forest. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and Oscar had to trot to match Bosz’s swift pace, grateful for his long stride as she zipped over the ground. When they reached the edge of the forest, however, she froze in her tracks, flinging out an arm to stop Oscar and holding a finger to her lips. She pulled Oscar behind a tree and tapped her left cheekbone with two fingers. _Man down._

Oscar saw the glint of Zolf’s glaive, and for one horrible second his mind went completely blank. But he forced himself to shut his eyes, take a deep breath. Listened to the wind in the trees, smelled the earthy scent of mud and leaves, felt the reassuring weight of his crossbow. He opened his eyes and began singing under his breath, sketching out a rough silhouette with his fingers. He flexed his fingers, projecting an image of himself and sending it into the woods towards Zolf’s glaive. 

“Alright,” Oscar’s projection said, holding up his hands. “I’m sure Robineau would rather I come with you willingly. I’m unarmed, and I’m ready to go with you without a struggle.” 

A gnome dropped down from a tree, and Bosz hurled a dart, hitting him in the chest. The gnome screamed and shot wildly at Oscar’s projection. Oscar made his projection drop to the ground to avoid the arrow. “Well, that’s not very sporting,” it said. 

An arrow flew out of a nearby tree, passing straight through the illusion. Oscar broke the spell, and Bosz stood and hurled a bomb into the tree. When it exploded, a gnome dropped to the forest floor and lay face down, unmoving.

Oscar lifted his loaded crossbow and shot the first gnome in the leg. He collapsed, and Bosz rushed forward, yanking out her dart and flipping him onto his stomach. She pulled him into a headlock and hissed something in Gnomish, flashing every last one of her teeth. The gnome went very still.

Oscar walked over to the second gnome and checked her pulse. Definitely dead. He stood up and pulled a length of rope out of his bag. “Thanks,” Bosz said, gesturing with her chin for him to take over. Oscar held down the gnome as Bosz quickly bound his wrists and ankles. She flipped the gnome onto his back and sat back on her heels. 

“Well,” she said breathlessly. “That’s not good.”

“Do you think we can make him talk?”

Bosz shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.” 

“It can’t hurt to get more information. Ask him where they took Zolf.”

Bosz snapped something in Gnomish. The gnome stared at her, unflinching. She picked up her dart and held it to his throat, then gestured at Oscar and whispered something in his ear. The gnome gave a short reply.

“He says he’s a mercenary, hired this morning.” She asked the gnome another question, nudging his stomach with her foot. He winced and gave another short reply.

Bosz looked at Oscar. “He says their only orders were to take you and the dwarf.”

Oscar drummed his fingers against his leg. “That makes sense. Robineau wouldn’t send people who knew anything of value. And I think...”

_I think Robineau knows._

Oscar shook his head. “Let’s knock him out. We don’t want him talking when he’s found.”

Bosz selected a small dart from her belt, then stuck it in the gnome’s neck. He spasmed for a few seconds, then collapsed.

Bosz tucked her darts away and stood up, dusting off her palms. “Alright, spymaster. What’re you thinking?”

 _Breathe, breathe._ Oscar slipped his sleeves on and off, changing into a forest green suit, brocade waistcoat, and silk tie.

Bosz looked at him like he’d just turned himself into a slug. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“My battle armour.” Oscar pulled a hand mirror out of his pocket and flipped it open, then reached into his bag and fished out his concealer. _You’re_ good _at this,_ he thought, lightening the smudges around his eyes. _You can work with anything._ He combed his hair back and practiced a smile. Too friendly, too guileless. Something sharper, more discerning. He wiped off some of the concealer and tried again, a slow, easy smirk. _There it is._

Oscar tucked away his mirror and struck a pose. “How do I look?”

Bosz blinked. “Uhm. Completely ridiculous?”

Oscar nodded, satisfied. “Perfect. So. Can you get into the inn through the roof?”

Bosz narrowed her eyes. “Yes, obviously, it’s a single-story building with a thatched roof and exposed beams. Are we really not gonna talk about your bonkers outfit? What’re you gonna do, seduce your way inside?” A look of horror crossed her face. “You’re totally gonna try to seduce your way inside.”

“In a sense. I’m fairly certain that the person Robineau actually wants is me. So let’s give him what he wants.” Oscar smirked. “You go in through the roof, and I go in through the front door.” 

“Okay,” Bosz said slowly. “I think I’m with you.”

“Robineau is smart enough to know that I would’ve had to sacrifice my magic to survive my curse, but he doesn’t know the curse is broken. So he’ll be cocky. He’ll likely take me somewhere private for questioning with a couple of trusted guards. You’ll track us from the rafters and take care of the guards. I’ll take care of Robineau.” Oscar unslung his crossbow and quiver and handed them to Bosz. “Hold onto these for me.” He hauled up Zolf’s glaive. “And Zolf will need this, too.”

Bosz huffed a laugh and stuffed the bow and arrows into her bag of holding, then held it open for Zolf’s glaive. “You’re nuts, but this could work. You’ll need to stall for time, though, so I can catch up.”

Oscar gestured at his suit. “Hence the outfit.”

Bosz raised her eyebrows. “Try to keep it on, please.”

“Oh, come on Bosz. I’m not that shameless.”

Bosz looked Oscar up and down. “Yes, you are.”

“Yes, alright, fine.” Oscar waved a hand impatiently. “Believe me, I have no plans to sleep with Robineau ever again.”

“Good. Give me a few minutes head start so I can map out the building, try to figure out where they’re keeping Zolf.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Yeah, ten minutes should be good.” She flipped up the hood of her cloak. “Don’t be stupid. Zolf will murder me if anything happens to you.”

Oscar nodded. “You too. Good luck. I’ll see you inside.”


	20. Chapter 20

Oscar drinks his over-brewed tea—the perfect companion to Zolf’s over-sentimental novel—and finishes the last cup just as he finishes the book.

> _“Tell me, Jennifer, did you fall in love with me in the arcade?”_
> 
> _Jennifer laughed breathlessly as Richard kissed her neck. “You were a right dick in the arcade.”_
> 
> _“Was it when I chased you down at the fish dock, sketchbook in hand and a wild desire in my eyes?” He hummed as he slid his tongue over her collarbone._
> 
> _Jennifer sighed and fisted a hand in Richard’s hair. “Ugh, no, you were so condescending.”_
> 
> _Richard flicked his eyes up to meet her gaze as he pressed kisses down her stomach. “Or did you fall for the desperate artist, struggling to overcome his inner demons?”_
> 
> _“You were such a bloody drama queen, I had—ahhhh—I had to fuck you just to get you to calm down.”_
> 
> _Richard brushed his lips along Jennifer’s hip. “Tell me you didn’t love me a little when we got caught out in the ocean in the rain.”_
> 
> _“You were useless in that storm, you just sat there staring at me like an idiot all the way to shore.”_
> 
> _Richard pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “No, I believe you fell in love with me when I showed you my painting. You were quite overcome, as I recall.” He smirked up at Jennifer as he ran his hands down her legs._
> 
> _Jennifer rested her hand against Richard’s cheek. “Already loved you by then, you bastard. Does it really matter when I fell for you if I know I love you now?”_
> 
> _Richard’s face softened, and his eyes were impossibly dark as he leaned into her touch. “No,” he said, turning to kiss her palm. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

Oscar shuts _When Passions Collide_ and smooths his hands over the worn covers. He feels drained, that bone-deep, satisfying exhaustion that follows a proper catharsis, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wants to run to Zolf and kiss him, pull him into bed. _I_ _loved it, you have no idea, I loved it so much, you’ll have to lend me all the others._ And Zolf would laugh and run his fingers through Oscar’s hair, crinkle his eyes in that lovely, pleased way. _I told you so, you idiot,_ he’d say. _Just wait until you read_ With the Passion of the Sun! 

Oscar flips open his pocket watch. _11:56 am._ He thinks about going down to the cell early and the room starts to spin. _Breathe. Breathe, breathe._ He shuts his eyes and breaths in, smells the bitter dregs of his tea, listens to the rain and the ticking of his pocket watch, feels the dull ache in his back from sitting on the floor. He blinks his eyes open and his chest is painfully tight. _Twelve more hours,_ he tells himself, as he goes to clean his teapot. 

* * *

Oscar checked his pocket watch as Bosz darted back towards the inn. _7:04 pm._ Alright. Ten minutes to organise his thoughts. He took a deep breath. _Start at the beginning._

Robineau wanted to take Oscar out. But he didn’t just want Oscar; he wanted Oscar’s intel. Simply removing Oscar from the field was one thing, but getting him to cooperate with the Cult of Hades would change the game. While Robineau was an exceptional diviner, divining complex information from an unwilling subject could take months and would be a massive drain on a top officer’s time and resources. And Robineau was nothing if not efficient.

So Robineau was looking to leverage Oscar’s cooperation by taking a hostage. Oscar seriously doubted that Robineau knew the full extent of his relationship with Zolf. The antimagic shackles would’ve blocked any divining spells, and he’d been scrupulously careful with scrying shields after regaining his magic. But nothing would’ve stopped Robineau from tracking them using mundane means. 

Embarking on an international journey to recruit a former agent was unusual. And it had been particularly out-of-character for Oscar, who had cultivated a reputation of detached self-sufficiency in the field, the kind of officer who enjoyed working alone and never built lasting relationships with his agents. 

So. Robineau knew Zolf was exceptional, but he didn’t necessarily know why. In case things went a bit pear-shaped, Oscar had to convince Robineau that Zolf was nothing more than an extraordinarily skilled agent. Which was fortunately true. 

There was one major variable that was completely out of Oscar’s hands. Robineau would almost certainly question Zolf before speaking to Oscar. Zolf was...not a subtle man. 

Oscar checked his watch. _7:14 pm._ He wrapped his cloak around him and began walking towards the inn.

_Please, Zolf. Just keep your mouth shut. I’m on my way._

* * *

Zolf woke up in a small cell, slumped over in a chair and powerfully dizzy. His hands were bound tightly together, and when he tried to stand, he nearly collapsed out of his chair. _Fuck._ Someone had removed his prostheses while he’d been unconscious. He blinked his eyes muzzily. _So you’ve been kidnapped._ His mind was slow as molasses from the lingering poison in his veins. _Who would kidnap you?_

“Hello, Mr Smith. You’re up earlier than expected! What a lovely surprise. You must have a remarkable constitution.”

Zolf opened his eyes to see a slender white man smiling pleasantly through the bars. He looked to be in his mid-to-late fifties, with greying blonde hair, a blandly handsome face, and a simple black suit that even Zolf could tell was perfectly cut. _Robineau. Shit._

“I’m Émile. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” Robineau stepped closer to the cell. “I’ve heard so much about the dwarven sailor chosen by Poseidon. Although it appears you’ve had something of a falling-out with your god.”

Zolf couldn’t bluff under the best of circumstances, and he was so dazed he couldn’t even get his vision to focus. _Don’t talk. Don’t give him anything._

“You’ve been working with Oscar Wilde for over half a year now. Surely you must know that’s a tremendous achievement.” Robineau chuckled gently. “I adore Oscar, and he has many fine qualities, but he can be quite challenging to work with, I hear.”

 _Just stay calm._ Zolf shut his eyes, trying to clear his mind. _Focus._

“I suppose it all balances out in the end. Oscar is _very_ good at his job. We tried to recruit him, you know, in Damascus. About a month before the two of you reunited, if I’m not mistaken.” Robineau sighed wistfully. “That was a lovely night.”

Zolf bit his tongue. _You knew already, don’t be stupid. Focus._ He checked his magic. Still there, though he couldn’t cast with his hands bound. 

Zolf heard the rustle of fabric as Robineau crouched down. He opened his eyes to see Robineau peering at him with a thoughtful frown. “Him and that filthy mouth of his,” Robineau said smoothly, his eyes never leaving Zolf’s face. “Like I said, he’s _very_ good at his job.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Zolf snapped. 

“Interesting.” Robineau pushed himself upright and started tracing a symbol with his fingers in yellow light. _“Tell me,_ Mr Smith. How would you characterize your relationship with Oscar?”

Zolf felt the spark of Robineau’s power as it tried to slip into his mind, and he grit his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t bluff to save his life, but he was perfectly capable of defeating a spell through sheer force of will. “Not everyone wants to fuck Oscar Wilde,” he spat. Technically true. Bosz would _never._

Robineau smirked as his spell fizzled out. “Fair enough.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spell Robineau uses is [mind probe](https://2e.aonprd.com/Spells.aspx?ID=193), and Zolf rolled a 28 on his will save :P


	21. Chapter 21

Oscar walked into the inn, removing his cloak and combing back his hair. Two human men stood in the foyer, watching him warily. “Do you speak English?” Oscar asked in Japanese. One of them nodded. “I’m here to see Émile Robineau. I’m not sure if he’s expecting me.” 

The man nodded. “One moment,” he said, and headed towards the back of the inn.

While he was waiting, Oscar casually leaned against the wall and risked a glance up towards the ceiling. Bosz had been right about the exposed beams, though the rafters were silent. _Probably a good thing._ Bosz was very light on her feet. He checked to see if the other man had noticed anything, but he was busy faffing with his belt. _Concealed weapon._ The man looked up, and Oscar smiled, letting his eyes rest on the outline of a shortsword under his tunic. _Not terribly practiced with concealment._

“Oscar Wilde, as I live and breathe!” Robineau strode into the foyer, his arms spread wide in welcome. He was flanked by two guards, a massive half-orc with a greatsword strapped to his back and a sharp-eyed halfling, almost certainly a combat wizard. “What a lovely surprise! Though I can’t say it’s entirely unexpected to see you this far from home. You _do_ always manage to appear in the most extraordinary places.” 

“Émile!” Oscar called out brightly, pushing himself off the wall. “How dare you travel all the way to Japan and not let me know! I’m so sorry to drop by like this unannounced, but I happened to be in the area and simply _had_ to look you up. I was hoping I might discuss a rather...personal matter with you.” Oscar smirked and glanced down at the floor, then dragged his eyes up to meet Robineau’s gaze. “One that arose just a few days after we last met in Damascus, I’m afraid.”

“Well.” Robineau smiled sympathetically. “Isn’t that an unfortunate coincidence.” 

“Oh, darling, you know I don’t believe in coincidence, only windows of opportunity. And you’ve always been one to take advantage of an opportunity.” Oscar beamed and tossed his hair. “At least in my experience.”

“You know me so well, Oscar.” Robineau started walking down the hall, glancing back at Oscar over his shoulder. “Let’s discuss in my office.”

Robineau led him to the back of the inn and slid open a door, ushering Oscar inside. Oscar quickly inventoried the room. Sparse, just a desk and two chairs. Western-style furniture, so Robineau likely planned to stay for some time. Oscar’s eyes fell on Zolf’s prostheses stacked neatly behind the desk, and a hard knot clenched in his chest. 

The guards stationed themselves on either side of the door, and Robineau sat behind his desk, gesturing for Oscar to take the seat across from him. “Can I offer you a drink?”

 _As though I’d ever drink anything you prepared for me._ Oscar smiled gratefully. “That would be lovely.”

Robineau reached into his desk, pulling out two crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He poured two drinks, sliding one across to Oscar. Robineau took a delicate sip—large enough to suggest the drink was clean, small enough for a subtle poison to have no effect—then set his glass down.

Oscar opened his mouth to speak, but Robineau raised a hand to silence him. “I understand you lost an agent today. Only the most recent in a long string of losses, if I’m not mistaken.”

 _You’re so bloody cocky._ Oscar frowned and leaned against the armrest of his chair, resting his chin in his hand. “What makes you say that?”

“Come now, Oscar. There’s no need for us to play games,” Robineau chided. “We both know why you’re here. You’re here for Zolf Smith.” 

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Well, Émile, what can I say? It’s my job. I’m his handler.” He waved a hand, resigned. “And I hardly have the luxury of burning through agents at my preferred rate, now that I’ve been forced to live by my wits.” He smiled wryly. “Though I suppose you know all about that already, don’t you?”

“Of course. But the curse has been broken for some time now, hasn’t it?” Robineau leaned forward, fixing Oscar with a searching look. “And you’ve never needed a bodyguard, with or without your magic. No, that’s not why you’ve come for Mr Smith.” Yellow light sparked from his fingers as he began sketching a divination rune in the air. _“Tell me,_ Oscar. Who is Zolf Smith, really?”

Oscar felt the power behind Robineau’s question reverberate in the deepest corners of his mind. _Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ “Mr Smith is a cleric without a god. He has access to untold power with none of the limitations of faith.”

Robineau shook his head. _“That’s not quite right, is it?”_ The electric buzz of Robineau’s magic sank into Oscar’s mind, sharp and jagged as barbed wire, and began sifting through his memories. _“Why don’t you show me who he really is...”_

> Zolf headbutting Oscar no more than five minutes after they first met. _Well. Aren’t you interesting?_
> 
> Zolf, hot as a furnace at his back, rubbing the ache from his chest. _Call me Zolf._
> 
> Swearing to a god to look after him. _I won’t_ allow _you to die._ Following Zolf’s voice back from the dead, Oscar’s blood singing with his power. 
> 
> Zolf’s gentle hands on Oscar’s face, the scent of tobacco and cedar. _What do you see?_ His lovely red ears, the searing heat of his mouth.
> 
> Zolf, pulling Oscar into bed and stroking his hair. _Stay with me, love._ _How does that feel?_
> 
> Oscar, alone in his office, reading _Pride and Prejudice_ late into the night. 
> 
> _“You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous._ _By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”_
> 
> Scribbling _“or a man”_ in the margins, thinking only of Zolf.

Robineau broke the spell, and Oscar reeled back, panting. _Shit. Come on, Bosz. Come through for me._

“Alright.” Robineau leaned back in his chair, regarding Oscar with a tight, pleased smile. “Let’s try that again. Tell me, Oscar. Why should I release the man you love?”

Oscar took in Robineau’s relaxed posture, the cruel twist of his mouth, and in that moment Oscar wanted to kill him. His mind crystallized around that sharp, seething hatred, and he smirked, slow and easy. “Because otherwise,” Oscar said coolly, “I’ll let him drown you in a bucket.” 

Oscar heard a thud behind him as one of the guards collapsed. The half-orc grunted as he unsheathed his sword, and there was a crunch as he struck the beam above them, showering splinters over the desk. 

Robineau flinched, breaking his focus. Oscar sang a measure under his breath and clicked his fingers, freezing Robineau in place. 

Bosz flipped down from the rafters, landing lightly on the desk in front of Oscar. He ducked as she pulled two darts out of her quiver and hurled one into the half-orc’s eye, then buried the second in his throat. He dropped like a stone.

Bosz hopped off the desk and stepped on the guard’s chest to reclaim her darts. She turned to face Oscar, her chest heaving, and flashed a triumphant smile. “Holy shit, you’re in love with Zolf!” she whispered, yanking the dart out of the guard’s neck. “I _knew_ it!”

 _“Not_ the time, Bosz,” Oscar hissed back. “Knock Robineau out _now,_ before he breaks the spell.” 

Bosz walked over to Robineau and pulled him down to her level, peering at his paralyzed face. “I can’t believe you fucked this guy. He’s such a tool.” She plunged a blow dart into his neck, then kicked his limp body to the floor. 

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Desperate times,” he muttered, pulling a mobile stone out of his pocket. “Tie Robineau up, please.” He gestured at the halfling, who lay in a crumpled heap with a blow dart sticking out of her neck. “And the guard you didn’t kill, if you could. Best to take her in too.” Bosz nodded and pulled a length of rope out her bag. 

Once they were bound and gagged, Oscar called Einstein.

_“Hello?!”_

“Shhh. We’re ready for you. _Please,_ try to be quiet.”

Einstein appeared, flashing a bright smile and a double thumbs-up. Oscar grinned back and pointed at Robineau and the halfling, and Einstein nodded, grabbing their arms and transporting back to Cairo. 

Oscar slipped his sleeves off and on, changing back into his linen tunic and trousers. Bosz set down her bag of holding, pulling out Oscar’s crossbow and quiver. Oscar slung them over his shoulder, then picked up Zolf’s prostheses and stuffed them in Bosz’s bag. 

While Oscar searched Robineau’s desk, Bosz picked up a pen and began sketching a map of the inn on Robineau’s blotter. “They’ve got Zolf locked in a cell in this room,” she whispered, marking a room on the far corner of the inn with an x. “Assuming we don’t alert the guards outside—and that’s a big assumption—we’re going to run into five guards along the way. Two here—” she circled the foyer “—and three inside the holding room, guarding Zolf. The first two guards are armed with shortswords. Nothing special there. But the three guarding Zolf look like they know what they’re doing. One has a katana, one has shuriken, the other has something that looks like glaive but a little bigger.” 

Oscar squinted at the map. “What’s your call?”

Bosz chewed her lip. “We can take the first two guards, easy. They’re low-level, and there’s cover for us here.” She circled the wall at the end of the hallway. “So we can take advantage of our range, and if we’re very, very careful, we can take them out quietly.

“But for Zolf’s guards, honestly, I think you and I are outmatched here. These are trained fighters. I might be able to take out one, _maybe_ two if we catch them flat-footed. But overall, it’s not a good match-up for two lightweights.” 

Oscar drummed his fingers against the desk. “We need a heavy hitter.” 

“Exactly. We gotta get Zolf out into the fray. The biggest problem is this.” Bosz drew a line down the corridor leading up to Zolf’s holding room. “It’s a bottleneck. They’ve got plenty of cover, and we can’t get to Zolf without being seen. So we need a distraction, something that’ll let me slip past the guards and break Zolf out. That’s where you come in.”

Oscar nodded. “How many bombs do you have left?”

“Two. Once we take out the first two guards, I should head back into the rafters. You wait here—” she circled the wall perpendicular to the corridor “—until I drop a bomb over their heads. That’ll be your signal to build an even bigger distraction. Meanwhile, I’ll hop down and pick the lock to Zolf’s cell.” She frowned at the map. “I’ll need to move fast. The explosion will definitely alert the guards outside, and unless we have Zolf, we’re not making it out once we’re surrounded.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You mean _I’m_ not making it out once we’re surrounded.” 

Bosz cuffed his arm. “Same difference, asshole.”

Oscar looked at the map. “Why don’t you head back up to the rafters now? See if you can’t take out the first two guards from above. I’ll run interference below.”

“Probably a good idea.” Bosz turned to face him and gripped his arms tight, digging in her claws. “I’m fast, but sneaking around on a narrow beam slows me down. _Do not get ahead of me._ Do you understand?” 

Oscar nodded and smiled slightly. _I’m so glad you’re here._

Bosz narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t a joke. You’re completely useless in combat without someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Remember, no fucking heroics, you smug little shit.”

Oscar shook his head, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “I know, I know. I’m just—You’re really lovely, Bosz.” He patted her on the shoulder, and her ears flicked up as she cocked her head to one side, bemused. 

“Ok, loverboy. Don’t get too soft on me now. Do you know where to go?” 

“Yes.”

"You're sure?"

 _"Yes,_ Bosz."

“Load your crossbow, idiot.”

Oscar loaded his crossbow and smiled at her fondly. “Alright. Need a leg up?”

Bosz sighed and pulled herself up on the desk. “Yes, fine, that’d be great.” She put her hands on Oscar’s shoulders and smirked. “Let’s go save your boyfriend.”

Oscar shook his head and boosted Bosz up into the rafters.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexy stuff here. If you want to skip, skip the section starting with "***."

Zolf glared at the three guards standing outside his cell as his mind slowly kicked back into focus. He appraised the tall human leaning on his naginata, noting his strong stance, his sure grip. Light glanced off the swirling metal of the blade. _Adamantine. Masterwork._ The guard had the advantage of a longer reach, but his slim waist suggested his core was far weaker than Zolf’s. _Likely relies on cuts and slashes. Might struggle to parry or block a strong thrust._

Zolf was more concerned by the human armed with a katana and the gnome idly fiddling with a shuriken. Both looked fast and agile, and the swordswoman’s powerful shoulders suggested she would be a massive threat if she got into range. 

The gnome’s ears pricked up, and she flicked her eyes up to the ceiling. Zolf followed her gaze to see Bosz crouched in the rafters, her tongue between her teeth as she lobbed a bomb into center of the room. The gnome screamed to alert the others and flipped back. But the swordswoman’s reflexes were too slow, and the bomb exploded at her feet, knocking her down. She pulled herself upright and unsheathed her sword, blood streaming from a gash in her chest where she’d been struck by shrapnel. 

Wilde’s silvery voice cut through the smoke as he began singing a strange, hypnotic melody. As the smoke cleared, Zolf could make out Wilde’s slender silhouette at the end of the hall, his hands outstretched. Turquoise and magenta light flowed from his palms, twisting into an iridescent display that shimmered like the ocean at sunset. 

Bosz dropped down from the ceiling, landing on top of Zolf’s cell. She clambered down and started picking the lock. “I’ve got your legs and your glaive in my bag. Is Wilde’s spell working?” 

All three guards stood transfixed by the wave of light. “Looks like it,” Zolf said, his gaze darting back and forth between Wilde and the guards.

Bosz swore as one of her picks jammed in the lock. She twisted it loose and tried another. “Come on, come on, come on,” she hissed, turning the pick in the lock. 

Just as the lock clicked open, Wilde’s illusion flickered out. Wilde chanted something harsh and discordant, and when he clicked his fingers a massive explosion detonated in the corridor. The gnome shook her head and cried out, darting forward and hurling a shuriken down the hall. 

_“Oscar,”_ Zolf roared as Bosz scrambled with the latch to open the cell. The shuriken passed through Wilde’s chest like air, and Zolf felt dizzy with relief. _Just his projection, then._ But now the gnome knew it was an illusion, and they had precious little time before she found the real Wilde. 

Bosz pulled a knife out of her belt and sliced through the rope binding Zolf’s hands. “Let’s go,” she snapped, throwing her bag at Zolf. She spun around and hurled a dart at the gnome, who wove to the left, letting the dart fly past her head. 

Blood rushed in Zolf’s ears as he plugged his legs into their ports and hauled his glaive into position. He looked up to see Bosz flipping out of the swordswoman’s range. Zolf ran forward and swung his glaive in a wide arc, slashing the woman across the throat. She collapsed, her katana clattering to the ground, and Bosz started chasing the gnome down the corridor. 

Zolf turned and parried a cut from the man with the naginata, shoving him back into the wall. Zolf anchored his feet and thrust his glaive forward with all his might, knocking the naginata aside and burying the blade in the man’s stomach. The man slumped forward. 

_“Zolf,”_ Bosz screamed. “We need you _right now!”_

Zolf wrenched his glaive loose and sprinted down the corridor, his heart pounding in his chest. He turned the corner to see Wilde crumpled on the floor with a puddle of blood pooling around his head. The edges of Zolf’s vision blurred away until all he saw was Wilde’s ashen face, a violent gash bisecting his cheek. Wilde was conscious but fading fast, and Zolf could see the light in his dark eyes flickering out as he ran to his side. 

“Oscar,stay with me, I need you to _stay with me.”_ Zolf threw himself to the floor next to Wilde. _Don’t do this to me, Oscar._ He shut his eyes and inhaled slowly to focus his power, then placed his palms flat on Wilde’s chest and channeled positive energy into his body. 

When Zolf opened his eyes, the wound was knitting itself closed, leaving nothing behind but the flush of freshly healed skin. Color returned to Wilde’s face, and he sat up, gingerly rubbing his cheek. He smirked and reached out, caressing Zolf’s jaw. “So that’s why we keep you around.” 

Relief made Zolf’s knees weak, and he shut his eyes briefly as he sat back heavily on his heels and sighed. “Gods, Oscar, you absolute idiot.” 

* * *

***

It was past midnight by the time they finished investigating the inn, so they headed back into the forest to hunker down for the night. Bosz glanced at Oscar and flashed a sly smile. “I’m sure you’re both exhausted. I can take first watch.” She waved a hand. “Off you go.” 

Zolf nodded and began setting up a tent. When Oscar pulled out his own tent, Zolf reached over and gently tugged it out of his hands. Oscar nodded, his throat tight. 

Once they were inside, Zolf wrapped Oscar in his arms, palming the back of his head and crushing him to his chest. 

“Oscar.” Zolf shook his head, smoothing his fingers over Oscar’s cheek. “You can’t do that to me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Oscar murmured into Zolf’s beard, breathing in the scent of saltwater and tobacco. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for,” Zolf whispered fiercely. 

_But this is what comes of loving you._ Oscar couldn’t stop putting himself in danger, but he would do whatever it took to keep Zolf out of the line of fire. He remembered the cruel light in Robineau’s eyes when he realized what he had on his hands, the power he had over Oscar in that moment. And Poseidon might have the infinite power of a god, but Oscar had infinite enemies. Robineau was just the beginning.

_I can’t do this to you anymore. But let me have this, just for tonight._

Oscar pulled away and tore off his tunic. “Not close enough,” he mumbled, kicking off his trousers and grasping at Zolf’s shirt. 

Zolf pulled off his shirt, and Oscar climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. He ran his hands over Zolf’s chest, mapping the contours of muscle and bone with his fingertips. _Let me memorise the history of your body._ He lingered on a long, thin scar that crossed Zolf’s breast. “How did you get this?”

“Back when I was still in the navy, my ship got into a skirmish with some pirates, and I got slashed with a cutlass.” 

Oscar dipped his head down and ran his tongue along the scar, the skin smooth and hairless where the wound had healed. Zolf sucked in a breath, and Oscar looked up, frowning. “Is that alright?”

Zolf rested a hand on the back of Oscar’s head. “Yeah, it just—it’s good.”

Oscar hummed and brushed his lips against the letters tattooed under Zolf’s collarbone. _FS. GS. HS. PZ._ “When did you get these?”

Zolf combed his fingers through Oscar’s hair. “After they died. Feryn Smith, my brother. My mother and father, Gloralla and Hirald Smith. And Pabni Zara. She was Bosz’s partner and a good friend.”

Oscar traced the initials with his finger. Such small symbols for so much grief. “I’m sorry.” He kissed the hollow at the base of Zolf’s throat. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“S’alright.” Zolf cupped Oscar’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You don’t have to stop. If you don’t want to.”

Oscar smiled and covered Zolf’s hand with his own, suddenly shy. _I’m so in love with you._ “Alright.” He kissed down Zolf’s chest, running a hand along Zolf’s ribs until he found the wide, jagged scar that wrapped around his left flank. “What about this?” Oscar slid his tongue over the warped skin, and Zolf sighed, tightening his grip on Oscar’s hair. 

“That’s from the shipwreck, the one what caused me to leave the navy. Dunno how it happened. I must’ve been hit with some debris.”

“You don’t remember?” Oscar caressed the scar as he licked around its ragged edge.

Zolf shook his head. “I blacked out and woke up on a piece of driftwood. Seemed like a good deal, all things considered.”

Oscar kissed over his stomach. “And this?” he asked, touching the blurry ship tattooed over Zolf’s right hip.

“That’s the _Snapdragon._ Didn’t heal too well, that one.” 

Oscar looked up at Zolf as he pressed his lips to the tattoo, flicking his tongue over the sails. “It’s lovely,” he said honestly. _You’re lovely._

Zolf huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “No, it’s not.”

Oscar crawled back up and kissed Zolf, sucking gently on his lower lip. “Yes, it is.” Zolf pulled him down to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue into Oscar’s mouth and sending a rush of heat straight to his cock. Oscar groaned as he rubbed his cock against the ridges of Zolf’s abs, the velvety hair lining his stomach. “You feel _so good.”_

Zolf stroked Oscar’s thigh. “D’you want me to touch you?”

Oscar caught Zolf’s hand. “Not yet,” he said, pushing himself up and pressing Zolf’s palm to his chest. _Let me hold on to you for just a little longer._

Zolf looked at Oscar for a long moment. “What do you want?”

Oscar raised Zolf’s hand to his lips and brushed a kiss against his palm. _Anything. Everything._ He rolled off Zolf and onto his side. “Would you turn over for me?”

“Yeah, just give me a second.” Zolf shucked off his trousers and tossed them to the foot of the tent, then flipped onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms.

Oscar draped himself over Zolf’s back and ran his hands up Zolf’s arms, stopping when he felt the round, puckered scar just above his right elbow. “When did this happen?” he asked, rubbing it with his thumb. 

“That’s an old one. It was right after I started workin’ in the mines, so I must’ve been fifteen. I tripped on a rock and fell on my pickaxe.”

“And this?” Oscar stroked the anchor tattooed on Zolf’s shoulder. 

“My first tattoo after I joined the navy.”

Oscar kissed the tattoo just below Zolf’s neck, a wobbly line with two uneven triangles at one end. “I’ve always wondered about this one.” 

Zolf laughed. “Bosz gave me that. S’posed to be a dart. We got completely hammered one night and came up with somethin’ silly about watchin’ each others’ backs. She has a truly unfortunate trident in the same place. Bit outdated at this point, but the sentiment’s the same.”

Oscar grinned. “Incredible.” He kissed down Zolf’s spine and smoothed his hand over the dolphin tattooed from one shoulder blade to the other. “I love this one,” he said reverently, sketching over the outline with his fingers. 

“Pabni’s work. Meant to be a tribute to Poseidon, but now I s’pose it’s a tribute to her.”

“It’s beautiful.” Oscar ran his hand down Zolf’s flank and gripped his hip. “Come here,” he said, pulling Zolf into his chest. Zolf leaned back, and Oscar slid his arm under Zolf’s neck, carding his fingers through Zolf’s chest hair. 

Zolf gripped Oscar’s hand as Oscar began grinding his hips against the soft skin of Zolf’s back. “Does that feel good?” 

“Yes,” Oscar sighed. “You feel amazing.” He tugged Zolf’s braid experimentally, and Zolf gasped. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah,” Zolf said, his voice strained. Oscar wrapped Zolf’s braid around his palm and yanked his head back. Zolf bit his wrist and moaned.

Outside, Bosz cleared her throat pointedly. “Might patrol the perimeter,” she said, and Oscar heard her footsteps retreating away from the tent.

Oscar smirked. “Too much?” he murmured, brushing his lips against Zolf’s ear.

“No,” Zolf croaked. “That was—that was good.”

Oscar yanked Zolf’s braid again, groaning as he dragged his cock along Zolf’s back. He was already so close. _“Gods,_ you feel good.”

Zolf looked back at Oscar. “D’you want to come?”

“No,” Oscar panted into Zolf’s hair. “Not yet.” _I'm not ready to let you go._

Zolf rolled over to face him. “That’s alright, love,” he said softly, smoothing Oscar’s hair away from his forehead. “Take your time.”

Oscar’s heart lurched painfully in his chest, and he kissed Zolf, clinging to his beard like a lifeline. _Don’t let me go._ He wrapped his arms around Zolf’s shoulders and pulled their bodies together, the full length of his cock flush against Zolf’s thigh. Zolf rolled on top of him and curled his tongue into Oscar’s mouth, and it was too much and not enough, the throbbing, exquisite ache of his cock pressing into the heat of Zolf’s skin. “Zolf,” he breathed. “You feel _so good.”_

“Can I touch you?” Zolf asked, his voice low and urgent. Oscar nodded, and Zolf reached down and gently stroked Oscar’s cock, his calloused palm grazing over Oscar’s skin and sending a rush of sensation sparking through his body. “How does that feel?” 

Oscar gasped and clutched at Zolf’s beard, desperately bucking into his fist. “Zolf, _Zolf,_ that’s good, that’s _so good,_ Zolf, please, I—” _I love you._

Zolf began working Oscar’s cock with quick, tight strokes. He leaned down to kiss him, and Oscar came all over Zolf’s thighs, arching up into his chest and babbling Zolf’s name against his lips. Zolf moaned and gripped Oscar’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, and oh, that felt _incredible,_ blurred together with the fierce, bright pleasure thrilling through his veins.

“Sorry,” Zolf whispered breathlessly, bundling Oscar into his arms. “Did I hurt you?”

Oscar shook his head. “No, not at all.” _Not you. Never you._ He took Zolf’s face in his hands and kissed him, soft and lingering. Zolf smiled against his lips, and Oscar knew he was going to completely lose his mind if he spent another minute in this one-person tent with the man he loved. 

He clicked his fingers, prestidigitating them clean, and dragged himself out of Zolf’s arms. “I’m going to take the next watch,” Oscar said briskly, pulling on his tunic. 

Zolf pushed himself upright, frowning. “Next watch won’t be for at least another hour.” He rested his hands on Oscar’s waist, gently tugging him back down.

Oscar shut his eyes briefly. _Please don’t._ He pulled out of Zolf’s grasp and fumbled blindly with his trousers. “I think I need some air.” He tore open the tent and stumbled out into the night, hugging himself against the cold. _Breathe. Breathe._

* * *

Oscar stands outside the cellar door, clutching his lantern and checking his watch. _11:56 pm._ He snaps it shut and hesitates, then unlocks the door. _Close enough._

Zolf is sitting on the cot, his hair plaited back in that complicated style that makes him look like a warrior from an epic poem brought to life. He’s wearing his prostheses and nervously turning a piece of paper over in his hands, and he stands awkwardly as soon as he sees Oscar on the stairs.

“Uhm, hello,” Zolf says, shuffling his feet as a flush blooms over his ears and neck. 

Oscar smiles, Zolf’s embarrassment both a timely relief and a constant delight. “Hi, Zolf.” Zolf beams at the sound of his name, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it makes Oscar’s chest ache. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, I just, uhm, I, uh, I kinda need to tell you somethin’, and I didn’t really know how, so I guess, uhm, I guess I thought it’d be a good idea to just write it down? I dunno, maybe you’ll think it’s dumb, but I wrote you a letter, and I just…” Zolf trails off and clomps over to the gate, sliding the piece of paper through the slot. “So, uhm, that’s for you, I guess, if you want to read it. You don’t have to, but I—”

“Zolf.” Oscar walks over and picks up the letter, his heart racing. “Of course I’ll read your letter.” 

Zolf lets out a breath and nods. “Ok. I just, uhm. Thanks.” 

“Alright.” Oscar peers at Zolf curiously. “Shall we?”

Zolf starts. “Oh! Yeah, sorry, uhm, give me a second.” 

Oscar cocks his head and smirks. “Take your time,” he teases as Zolf unbuttons his shirt, and Zolf’s blush deepens to a brilliant fuchsia and spreads in ruddy splotches across his chest. _Gods, I’m so in love with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilde's spells are [ hypnotic pattern,](http://legacy.aonprd.com/coreRulebook/spells/hypnoticPattern.html#hypnotic-pattern) [ major image,](http://legacy.aonprd.com/coreRulebook/spells/majorImage.html#major-image) and [ project image. ](http://legacy.aonprd.com/coreRulebook/spells/projectImage.html#project-image)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm extremely excited to share this chapter with you :D

On the trip back from Izumi, Wilde was predictably cold and waspish. Zolf chalked it up to the rain, but Bosz kept shooting the two of them concerned looks. When they arrived back at the inn, Wilde stabled his horse and immediately headed off to the baths. Zolf went to follow him, but Bosz grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “What happened last night?” she asked.

Zolf frowned after Wilde. “Dunno,” he said honestly. “He just kind of...left.”

Bosz peered up at Zolf. “Before or after you fucked?”

Zolf yanked his arm out of Bosz’s grasp. “For goodness sake, Bosz,” he hissed, his ears burning. 

Bosz nodded and rubbed her lip thoughtfully. “I know it’s gonna be close quarters for the next week, but try to give him as much space as you can. I don’t know if…” She trailed off. “Look, you can be very, uhm, caregiver-y, and that’s nice and all, but this...this is a different thing. I don’t think you…” She scowled and shook her head, frustrated.

Zolf gave Bosz a confused look. “I’m not followin’ you.” 

“That whole situation with Robineau, I think it fucked with his head.” Bosz sighed, wringing her hands together. “Leave him alone so he can, y’know, realign his energies or whatever.” 

“Uhm. Still not sure I understand.”

“Yes, I know, but could you please just trust me?” Bosz snapped. She shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Sorry, I’m so fucking tired,” she muttered under her breath. “Look, I know you got kidnapped and all, but you weren’t there. Just don’t fight me on this, ok?”

“Alright,” Zolf said, a little taken aback. “I’ll leave him be.”

The quarantine period was...strange. Wilde set up a bedroll at the end of the cell, and Bosz ushered Zolf to the cot at the other side. Zolf spent the week working through a stack of Campbell novels and watching Wilde obsessively pour over Robineau’s paperwork. Wilde rarely left his corner and only spoke when spoken to first. The few times Zolf tried to start a conversation, Bosz changed the subject and glared at him until he stood down. 

Once they were released, Wilde predictably locked himself into his office. “Give him a few more days,” Bosz said. “Please, just trust me.”

Zolf forced himself to stay busy, cooking absurd amounts of food and spending hours training with his glaive until his shoulder screamed with pain. When he brought Wilde meals, Wilde would quietly thank him without meeting his eyes, then wave him away. His dishes were always scrubbed clean and left out to dry within a few hours, but Zolf found remnants of food caught in the drain and watched Wilde’s frame become more and more gaunt as the days progressed. 

Four days into Wilde’s self-imposed lockdown, Bosz let herself into Wilde’s office. She stormed out an hour later, furious in a way Zolf had rarely seen. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she seethed, scooping up her darts and heading outside. 

When Bosz tried again two days later, she left his office with her ears pressed tight against her head. She skulked to her room, and even though Zolf was standing a floor below in the kitchen, she slammed the door so hard it reverberated throughout the inn. 

Zolf winced as he sliced a slab of brisket into bite-sized pieces. _Well. That’s not good._ He added the meat to the radishes already simmering in a pot of stock, then popped the lid on and washed his hands. _Half an hour longer._ Hopefully that’d be enough time for Wilde to recover from whatever had happened with Bosz. He busied himself with cleaning up the kitchen until the beef was cooked through and tender, then added spring onions to the pot and seasoned the soup. 

Zolf filled a tray with food and headed to Oscar’s office, knocking on the door. “Come in,” Wilde said tiredly. Zolf balanced the tray on one arm and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Wilde had been looking suspiciously good for the past few days, but prestidigitation and make-up couldn’t hide the painfully sharp contours of his shoulder bones, the loose fit of his shirt. 

“Hey,” Zolf said, walking towards the desk and setting down the tray. 

Wilde glanced up from a file he was reading, looking at a point just past Zolf’s face. “Oh, thank you,” he said distractedly, turning back to his work. 

Zolf shuffled his feet, unsure of what to say. _Everything alright with Bosz?_ Clearly not, and Wilde would only equivocate or snap. _How are things going?_ “Fine, fine, I just need to focus right now,” he’d say, waving Zolf away. _Why did you run out of the tent two weeks ago?_ Nope. No. Absolutely not.

“Are you—are you gonna eat?” Zolf asked hesitantly. 

Wilde scribbled something in his notes and turned a page. “Maybe in a few minutes. I’m not terribly hungry right now. But thank you, I appreciate it.” He glanced up and met Zolf’s gaze, and for a brief moment a shadow flickered across his face. Then he gave a tight smile and turned back to his file. 

Zolf frowned and walked around the desk to stand behind Wilde’s chair. Wilde froze as Zolf leaned over him and shut the file. “You need to eat, love,” Zolf murmured, setting Wilde’s work aside and sliding the tray in front of him. He gently rubbed Wilde’s shoulders. “Can you close your eyes for me?”

Wilde nodded and took a deep breath. Zolf cupped Wilde’s hands in his own, wrapping them around the earthenware bowl. “What do you feel?”

Wilde’s breath caught in his throat. “The bowl.”

“How does it feel?”

“Warm. Solid.” Zolf felt Wilde’s fingertips smoothing over the bowl’s matte surface. “Coarse.”

Zolf leaned closer until his beard brushed against the side of Wilde’s face. “What do you smell?”

Wilde inhaled. “Saltwater.” He hesitated and slowly exhaled, then leaned forward over the tray and took another breath. “Broth. Scallions. Rice.”

Zolf pressed a spoon into Wilde’s hand. “Tell me what you taste.”

Oscar dipped the spoon into the soup and raised it to his lips. “Beef stock. Garlic. Salt.” He took another sip. “Black pepper.” He dipped the spoon back down and swallowed another mouthful of soup. “Something else.”

Zolf grinned. “Fish sauce,” he replied. 

Wilde hummed and took another bite, chewing on a piece of radish. “It’s lovely.” 

“Good. I’m glad.” Zolf kissed Wilde’s temple, and Wilde went very still. He carefully set his spoon down, then turned into Zolf’s chest and looked up at him, his eyes wide and dark.

“Thank you,” Wilde said breathlessly.

Warmth bloomed in Zolf’s chest as he ran his fingers through Wilde’s hair. “Of course.”

Wilde shut his eyes, then abruptly pulled away. He leaned over his desk and picked up his spoon, scooping rice into the bowl. “Don’t worry, Zolf,” he said, his voice crisp and businesslike as he stirred the soup. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.” 

Zolf stumbled back, stung by Wilde's sudden change in tone. He watched Wilde eat a spoonful of soup. “Uhm. Alright.” 

Wilde wiped his mouth delicately with a handkerchief. “Anything else I can do for you?”

 _Promise me you’ll finish your dinner._ “Not that I can think of.”

Wilde pulled his file towards him and turned back to his place. “I promise to eat the entire bowl of soup,” he said gently. “Now, if you don’t mind?” 

Zolf blinked. “Yeah, uhm, sorry,” he mumbled, turning to leave.

“Goodnight,” Wilde said as Zolf slid the door shut. Zolf walked back towards the kitchen, a heavy weight slowly twisting in his gut. _That was odd._

* * *

As soon as Zolf left, Oscar shoved himself up from his desk and began pacing around his office. _Breathe. Breathe._ He felt his heart start to pound and he fisted a hand in his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt and letting his head fall back. _Breathe._ He crouched to the floor and inhaled slowly. Listened to the sound of the rain, of pacing footsteps pounding through the ceiling, of Barnes and Carter talking down the hall. He exhaled, felt the dull pain of his hand tangled in his hair, the brush of his oversized shirt against his skin, the tatami mat under his feet. 

Oscar opened his eyes and stood up. _You have a promise to keep._ He walked back to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out _Pride and Prejudice._ Without Zolf, all Oscar had was Austen. And it wasn’t the same, but it was something. So he sat down, continued eating his soup, and began to read. 

> _They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene._ _Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him._ _Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been that in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure. _

Oscar swallowed the last of his soup and shut his eyes, picturing Zolf in the kitchen, standing on his stool and ladling soup into bowls for the others. Oscar loved watching Zolf cook, in part because Zolf was so ridiculously possessive over the kitchen that he became agitated as soon as someone came through the door. And Oscar enjoyed few things more than flustering Zolf, who blushed and spluttered whenever Oscar slipped an arm around his waist while he stood before the stove, or whispered something in his ear as he chopped vegetables. Oscar remembered kneeling before Zolf on the kitchen floor, tracing his lovely red ears, thinking, _You must know, how could you not know how much I love you?_

Oscar sighed and leaned back in his chair. _What at the moment is passing in your mind, Zolf? Are you thinking of me? Am I still dear to you?_ Oscar thought of Zolf covering Oscar’s hands with his own, pressing his lips against his temple. _Warm. Solid. Coarse._ He smiled at the pun. _Forgive me for being a little maudlin._ _I’m so in love with you._

* * *

Oscar finishes the check and flees to his office, his heart pounding in his chest. _Breathe. Breathe._ He shuts the door, sits down, and opens Zolf’s letter.

> _Oscar,_
> 
> _I hope you’re taking care of yourself. I heard Bosz got you drunk, so that’s good I guess._
> 
> _I read your book,_ Pride and Prejudice, _and it’s really good. Almost as good as_ With the Passion of the Sun, _and that’s the greatest romance novel ever written. So I’ve been pretty much just reading and rereading_ Pride and Prejudice _for the past few days, and I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about first impressions. You know, how things change when you learn more about a person. I don’t think it’s a big secret that I didn’t used to like you very much. And, to be fair, you were a right dick when we first met. I mean, you broke into Hamid’s apartment and slept with Bertie, for goodness sake. What was I supposed to make of that? And then you waltzed back into my life on the_ Medea, _and you have no idea how angry I was to see you. Well, maybe you have some idea. You’ve always loved taking the piss._
> 
> _But obviously things change. I suppose fighting a god alongside someone will do that. You were such an insufferable idiot, but you fought like mad to stay alive. And you almost died, and that scared the living shit out of me. I remember holding you that first time and thinking, this mad bastard, I don’t know how to keep you safe. Let me fight for you, heal you, cook for you, anything, just show me how to keep you safe._
> 
> _Then you started coming to me every so often, and there was something I could do for you. And you’d look at me like I had the answers to all of your problems. You’d banter and take the piss like everything was normal. You’d sleep, properly sleep the whole night through. I could keep you safe, at least in my bed, and you don’t know what that did to me, Oscar. I completely lost my head over you._
> 
> _I know things have been a bit weird lately. You haven’t come to me in a while, and maybe there’s nothing I can do for you anymore. I don’t know if that’s true, though. So now I’m coming to you, because here’s the thing—I’m in love with you. Maybe telling you is a mistake, but I genuinely don’t know how I can keep this from you. I’m just this dwarf that goes around, living my life, trying my damnedest to do what I think is right. And I think it’s right for me to love you._
> 
> _So, that’s out on the table now. And you can do whatever you want with that. I won’t let it compromise the mission. But I’m going to love you, Oscar. That’s just how it’s going to be. And I thought you should know._
> 
> _Zolf_

Oscar covers his mouth, his chest so tight he can barely breathe. _Oh._ He stands up, hesitates, then sits down again, and he realises he’s crying. He covers his face with his hands and clenches his jaw, pressing down on his eyes until swirling colours flash across his vision. _Breathe. Focus on the present, on what you need to do now._ He wipes his face and sucks in a deep breath, then pulls out a blank piece of paper, picks up a pen, and starts to write. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soup Zolf cooks is [ soegogi-muguk](https://www.maangchi.com/recipe/soegogi-muguk) (though if you want to make it the right way, use [ seolleongtang](https://www.maangchi.com/recipe/seolleongtang) for the stock). Why is a dwarf from the West Country cooking a Korean soup in Japan? Because it's my favorite soup, that's why, and this is _my_ story, and I want my boys to have a moment while eating my favorite soup :P


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO EXCITED to share this chapter with you :D

Oscar hadn’t gone to Zolf’s room in over a month, but he allowed himself to hope that Zolf might come to him. And Zolf did come to him, carrying bowls of okayu, sweet potato soup, fish stew, his lovely face tight and concerned and utterly heartbreaking.

“Why does Zolf cook so much soup?” Oscar asked Bosz, forlornly stirring a half-eaten bowl of tamagogaku at his desk.

“Tamagogaku is a rice porridge, not a soup,” Bosz replied, impatiently tapping a bottle of sake against her palm. “Hurry up and finish your dinner so I can get you drunk.”

“You know what I mean. Liquid foods.” Oscar swallowed a spoonful of porridge. It was delicious, perfectly seasoned and gently spiced with ginger.

Bosz sighed as she uncorked the sake bottle, pouring two glasses and sliding one across the desk towards Oscar. “When you were a kid, what did your mom cook for you when you didn’t feel well?”

Oscar ate more porridge, chasing it with a large gulp of sake. “Beef tea.”

She looked at him pointedly and nodded. “My grandmother used to make udreseed broth. Tastes like mud, but it’s supposed to be good for your digestion.” She wrinkled her nose and sipped her drink. “You know, we didn’t eat tomagogaku tonight. He made that just for you.”

Oscar finished his porridge, then pushed the bowl away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Bosz glowered at Oscar as she topped up his glass. “He really cares about you, Oscar. You’re gonna fucking talk about it.” 

“I can’t—” Oscar picked up his glass and drained it, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, felt the sake burning down his throat. He opened his eyes and poured himself another drink. “You saw what happened in Izumi. It’s not just Robineau. I’m not particularly well-liked, as hard as that might be to believe.” He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I’ve lost count of my enemies, and I don’t know if I could bear it, if something happened to him because of me.”

Bosz narrowed her eyes. “You’re so full of shit,” she snapped. “You know what? Sure, I don’t know what it’s like to be a devastatingly handsome international man of mystery. But I know...” She looked down and started pleating the hem of her tunic. “I know what it’s like to…” Bosz shook her head and grit her teeth. “My partner died trying to protect me.”

“Bosz.” Oscar furrowed his brow and leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Bosz. I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry.”

Bosz looked up at him, her ears limp. “I don’t—I haven’t—” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Oscar hesitated, taking in her hunched shoulders and clenched fists. “You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”

“No, I…” Bosz ran a hand over her face. “It happened a while ago. I’d like to. If that’s okay.”

Oscar nodded. “Of course.” He offered Bosz his hand. _Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?_

She looked at his hand and scoffed. “I don’t want to hold your fucking hand, you awkward asshole.”

Oscar smiled. “Alright.” He pulled his hand back, picking up his drink. “Was her name Pabni?”

“Yeah,” Bosz sighed, looking into her sake. “Her name was Pabni.” She downed her drink and poured herself another. “She was—” Bosz drained her glass again and screwed up her face. “Sorry. I just—”

“You’re fine,” Oscar said, trying his best to sound encouraging. “Take whatever time you need.”

Bosz nodded and gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath. “It happened a few years ago, when the _Snapdragon_ was attacked by another pirate ship. They chucked a bomb onto the deck that didn’t detonate on impact, and Pabni shoved me out of the way and covered it with her body. I—” Bosz blew air out of her cheeks and closed her eyes. “She was so small, not much taller than me. It completely ripped her apart.” 

_Gods._ “Bosz, I’m—”

Bosz held up a hand and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said quietly. She rubbed her eyes and heaved a sigh, then refilled her glass. “Pabni was our boatswain. Protecting the crew was her job.” She sipped her drink and looked away, smiling wistfully. “That’s what I tell myself, anyways, so I can sleep at night. And I remember all the times I saved her ass over the years.”

“How long were you together?”

“Almost fifteen years.” She pulled up her tunic, revealing the eel tattooed across her ribcage. A lacy scar radiated out from the center of the eel, spanning the full width of her torso. “Ever wondered how I got this scar?”

“Lightning spell?” Oscar guessed.

Bosz nodded. “We got raided by a ship with a combat caster once, and I took a lightning ball meant for Pabni at close range.” She tugged her tunic back down, grinning. “She was so pissed. It really should’ve wiped me out, by all accounts. I only survived because Zolf had joined the crew a few weeks before.” Bosz rested her head in her hand and regarded Oscar thoughtfully. “You can’t love someone like that without collecting a few scars.” 

Oscar turned away and took a sip of sake. “Did Pabni give you that tattoo?” 

“Yeah. It was my idea, though, to cover a cool scar with something hideous.” 

“It’s beautiful.” Oscar looked down at Bosz and smiled conspiratorially. “Is it true that you have a tattoo of a trident on your back?”

Bosz burst into giggles. “Oh gods, I _love_ that tattoo!” She stood up and turned around, tugging down the back of her tunic to reveal a crooked line with three uneven prongs. “Look how horrible it is! It looks like a mutated chicken foot!”

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “Phenomenal.” 

Bosz hopped back into her seat. “Ok, now show me yours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of person who has tattoos?”

Bosz smiled wickedly. “I can change that, you know.”

The sake buzzed pleasantly through Oscar’s veins, and for a split second that sounded like an incredible idea. “What would you give me?” 

“Oh, come on.” She cocked her head to one side and smirked. “A glaive.”

Oscar had a vision of a wobbly pole with a curved tip, and he grinned. _Maybe not such an incredible idea to get a dick tattooed on my back._ “As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I’m alright.” 

* * *

Zolf hears the cellar door open, and at first he’s concerned—he’s already gotten his dinner, but it’s far too early for his check. Did something happen? But then he sees Wilde on the stairs, carrying a bag and a bedroll, and his mind goes completely blank. 

Wilde walks up to the cell and hesitates, and for a second Zolf is sure he’s going to bolt back up the stairs. But then he takes a deep breath. “Would you mind if I slept here tonight?”

 _“Yes,_ of course. I—I mean, no, I wouldn’t, I mean—” _Easy, Zolf._ He grips the edge of the cot and grins so wide his cheeks hurt. “I’d like it very much if you slept here tonight.”

Wilde smiles, soft and amused. “Alright.” He sets his bedroll down, then pulls an envelope out of his bag and slides it into the cell. “I wanted to write you back.” 

Zolf notices Wilde won’t meet his eyes, that he’s _blushing,_ and Zolf’s heart pounds like a drum as he fumbles with his prostheses and totters over to the door to retrieve the letter. 

> _Dear Zolf,_
> 
> _Your letter has moved me beyond all comprehension, so please excuse any incoherence as I try to find the right words to respond. I’m so pleased to hear that you enjoyed_ Pride and Prejudice. _I just finished reading your book, and I need you to know how profoundly_ When Passions Collide _affected me. What an excruciatingly beautiful story, what an absolute gift. It broke something in me, witnessing that intimate, existential joy of finding someone who shines a light into the darkest corners of your soul and understands exactly who you are. I couldn’t help but think of you, and I will be forever grateful to Harrison Campbell for giving me the vocabulary to articulate my feelings for you._
> 
> _Zolf, I come to you because you are my anchor, my hope, the love of my life. I’m sure you’ve never thought of yourself as beautiful before, and I doubt you ever will. But I swear, I have never known anything more beautiful than your steady gaze and gentle hands, the rumble of your voice, the searing heat of your skin. The epic poetry of your body, written in scar tissue and India ink. Your astonishing hair, a testament to your indomitable spirit. The warm light in your eyes when you look at Bosz or Sasha. The sweet fragrance of your tobacco, the rich aroma of cedar and leather woven into all of your clothes. How your beard always carries the scent of the sea._
> 
> _I am so proud of you, Zolf. You are extraordinary, a man who fought the ocean with his bare hands and won. Working alongside you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life, eclipsed only by the incomparable honor of your love. Please believe me when I say I never wanted to let you go. I didn’t think I deserved you, and I’m not sure I ever will. But I realise now that the world is only worth saving with you by my side. Because no matter what happens to us in this brave new world, I will never stop chasing that particular, intense passion that collided with me in Hamid’s apartment so very long ago and changed my life forever._
> 
> _So lend me the strength to face the strange and treacherous landscape that lies before us by allowing me to love you. Let me rub the tension out of your shoulders and fill your hot water bottle to soothe your legs. Let me fall asleep in your bed and wake up to the sight of you braiding your hair. Give me a love as familiar and precious as a romance novel stained with saltwater and over-brewed tea, and let me create a world worth saving with you._
> 
> _Zolf, my love, I’m yours if you’ll have me._
> 
> _Oscar_

Zolf folds the letter and slips it back into its envelope, his throat painfully tight. He looks up to see Wilde fussing with his bedroll, carefully avoiding his gaze. Zolf pulls the thin mattress off of the cot and onto the floor, dragging it to the edge of the cell, then sits down and leans his forehead against the bars. “Oscar,” he breathes. 

Wilde looks at him, his fair skin flushed a delicate pink. “Zolf." He smiles shyly, brushing his hair back from his face. “You must have known.”

“I genuinely had no idea.”

Wilde shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I don’t believe you.”

“Oscar.” Zolf laughs incredulously. “How could I have possibly known?”

Wilde sighs and lies back on the bedroll, resting his head on his arm. “Did you really think I was always that dramatic in bed?” 

Zolf lies down and turns to face him. He can’t stop smiling and he’s sure he looks ridiculous, but he’s too enraptured by the exquisite, insufferable man lying before him to care. “I think that’s a pretty understandable assumption, if I’m honest.”

“Fair enough.” Wilde gazes at Zolf for a long moment through the bars, his smile warm and fond. “You’re so lovely, Zolf. You know that, don’t you?”

Zolf’s heart does a somersault in his chest. _I’m so in love with you._ “If you say so, you mad bastard.” 

“Anyways.” Wilde reaches into his bag, pulling out _When Passions Collide._ “I’m not sure what you had planned for your last day in quarantine, but I’m only here because I need to talk to you about this fabulous book I just read.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know I haven't updated in a while, but this chapter fought me. Also, whoops, more sexy stuff! Mind the new tags, and skip past the section that starts with "***" if that's not your thing.

Oscar forced himself to eat as much as he could stomach every time Zolf brought a meal to his office. Then he crept down to the kitchen to wash up his dishes when he knew Zolf was off training or running errands or asleep, even though a ridiculous part of him wanted to run to Zolf and show off his empty bowls like a proud little boy.

But for better or worse, Oscar had plenty to keep him chained to his desk. Shortly after they captured Robineau, Ormila Niqys had left the Shoin Institute and disappeared. The Harlequins had had limited success extracting information from Robineau or his bodyguard, and Robineau’s notes were intentionally spare. But Oscar was _good_ at this, as he reminded himself repeatedly, and pushed himself to follow the faintest leads and build connections from the barest inferences. 

Eventually, he managed to track down an alchemist that matched Niqys’s description and called Barnes and Carter into his office to discuss the situation. Carter sat down across from Oscar’s desk while Barnes stood beside him, one arm resting on the back of his chair. 

“I’ve picked up a lead on Ormila Niqys in Munakata that I want you to follow.” Oscar slid a file across the desk, and Barnes reached over Carter to pick it up. “The situation with Niqys is worse than I originally thought. They’re sourcing blood from a wide range of infected magical creatures. Obviously Guivre remains our biggest concern here, but apparently the Cult of Hades is looking to diversify their options and possibly even engineer new mutations of the infection.”

Carter’s chair squeaked as he restlessly bounced his legs. “Do we get to investigate Niqys’s lab?” he asked.

“Eventually,” Oscar replied. Barnes quietly slid a hand around the back of Carter’s neck, and Oscar felt a sharp pang of jealousy as Carter relaxed into Barnes’s touch. “I’m sending the two of you to do reconnaissance first to see if this lead amounts to anything.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a mobile stone, handing it to Barnes. “Keep in touch. Bosz and Zolf will be on standby to join you as soon as you send word.” 

Barnes tucked the file under his arm and pocketed the stone. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning.” He gently squeezed Carter’s neck, and Carter immediately stood up. “Anything else you need from us?”

Oscar shook his head, feeling strangely emotional. “Nothing on my end,” he said, managing to keep his voice even. He smiled wryly at Carter as they turned to leave. “Have a good run.” 

* * *

Oscar’s mobile stone rang five days after Barnes and Carter left the inn. “Heading back now,” Barnes said, his voice rough and exhausted. “Don’t send Bosz and Zolf.” The line abruptly went dead.

When Barnes returned alone two days later, Oscar went to meet him outside. “Carter?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Dead,” Barnes said, dismounting from his horse and leading her to the stables. “Maybe worse. Keep watch.” 

Barnes was clearly walking with difficulty, but he shook his head when Zolf came to heal him. “I’d rather not, thank you.” He limped down to the cell, catching Oscar’s eye on his way. “I’ll give you a report later tonight.” 

When Oscar let himself into the cellar, Barnes was sitting stiffly on the cot, staring blankly ahead. “Hi, Oscar,” he said absently.

“Hello.” Oscar walked up to the cell, frowning. “What happened?”

Barnes stood up, tucking his hands behind his back. “We found Niqys’s lab. As you might imagine, it was a bit of a stronghold, and we got captured while we were mapping the perimeter. Once they found us, it was all or nothing. Even after we broke out, we didn’t have time to call for the others. You know they would’ve just moved to a new base, or doubled down on security.” 

Oscar sighed heavily, completely numb and utterly exhausted. “So you conducted a full investigation by yourselves.”

“Yes. Niqys was infected when we found her. They had locked her into the lab.” Barnes paused. “For what it’s worth, I think you were right about the Cult of Hades experimenting with new mutations of the infection. She wasn’t—she still looked like a gnome, but she didn’t move like one.” 

“How do you mean?”

“She was unnaturally agile and strong. And her movements were…uncanny. I can’t think of the right way to describe it. Not right.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose, unwilling to press Barnes for more details. “And what happened to Carter?” 

“Niqys attacked him.” Barnes kept his face resolutely stoic, though his eyes glazed over. “I believe he managed to take her down with him. I couldn’t—” he cleared his throat “—I couldn’t properly verify their deaths or dispose of the bodies without risking exposure myself.” 

Oscar crossed his arms and looked away. “No, I understand. I’m sorry.” 

Barnes nods, then knelt down and reached into his bag. “I took what I could from her lab.” He pulled out a stack of notebooks and a small adamantine safe. “These are in Japanese, so we’ll need to have them translated. And I don’t know what’s inside the safe, but it can’t be good. Bosz will need to take a look if I make it through quarantine.”

“Thank you.” Oscar shut his eyes briefly. _Breathe. Breathe._ “How are you feeling?”

“Just tired.”

Oscar shook his head. “I know you loved him, James,” he said softly. 

Barnes was silent for a long moment. “I…” He looked at a point over Oscar’s shoulder, working his jaw. “I’m glad I was there with him.” Barnes took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “I did everything I could.”

“I know.” Oscar regarded Barnes intently. _Was it worth it, loving him?_ “He was lucky to have you.” 

Barnes shook his head. “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” he said, and began unbuttoning his coat for the check.

* * *

“How would you characterise the passions of _When Passions Collide?”_ Oscar asks. “I mean, on a more symbolic level, I think it’s the two sides of sensuality—aesthetic and kinesthetic. But for Richard and Jennifer, what passions drive them as characters?”

“I think for Richard, it’s artistic integrity,” Zolf replies. “And for Jennifer, it’s her independence and self-reliance.” 

Oscar nods, then smiles apologetically. “Not to make everything about Austen, but I do sort of think it all comes down to pride, in both senses of the word.”

Zolf hums in agreement. “Yeah, I get that. I think they’re both fighting for respect and dignity, but also they only really come together once they get over themselves.”

“And also, that’s the climax of the story, how Richard manages to capture Jennifer’s spirit by painting her fortitude and tenacity, which are so central to her sense of self, and in turn creates a work of art on which he’s willing to stake his professional reputation.”

“Huh. Yeah.” Zolf gives Oscar a small, approving smile. “That’s a nice take, that is.”

Oscar smiles back, feeling warm and pleased with himself. “You know, I found the way they connected over their experiences with colonialism to be incredibly compelling,” he says. “That was a really interesting moment in the pub, when Richard talked about his background. I think that’s when Jennifer begins to realise they have more in common than she initially thought.”

Zolf frowns thoughtfully. “I didn’t think Jennifer made that connection until the scene in the studio, when Richard told her how his mother died.”

“Obviously she didn’t know the full story, but she knew he was an immigrant and that being a racial minority had shaped his life.” Oscar turns to the pub scene and reads the passage aloud. 

> _“So what brought you to this shit town?”_
> 
> _A shadow ghosted across his face. “There was some...trouble back home.” He remembered his mother screaming in broken Japanese, the dull crack of the man’s head on the cobblestones. “We needed to leave quickly, and my father has relatives in Lower Flik.”_
> 
> _“The Gnomish quarter? I didn’t know humans lived there.”_
> 
> _Richard shook his head. “They don’t.”_
> 
> _“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise.”_
> 
> _“It’s alright, I take after my mother.” Richard smiled gently and looked away._
> 
> _Jennifer frowned but didn’t press him further. “I was told my father was from Barbados, but he died before I was born.”_

Oscar shuts the book. “So Jennifer may not know Richard’s mother was assaulted by a Japanese military officer, or even about the Japanese occupation of Korea. But she knows implicitly that, like her, Richard understands what it’s like to negotiate his racial identity in a predominantly white society. And he just revealed that he used to live in an isolationist community that probably never fully accepted him. I think that’s what allows Jennifer to trust Richard enough to reveal that her father was from Barbados, a colony overwhelmingly populated by Blacks descended from slavery.” 

“Huh,” Zolf says. “I guess that just went a bit over my head.”

Oscar shrugs. “Growing up in a country colonised by England may have made me a bit more sensitive to discussions of exclusion and displacement.”

“You’re not English?” Zolf asks, sounding more curious than surprised.

Oscar shakes his head, smiling wistfully. “No. I can’t blame you if you thought otherwise, but I’m Irish.” He remembers practicing his accent alone in his room, straining to open his vowels and soften his consonants. How he hid in the back of his classes his first year at Oxford, terrified that a lilt would slip back into his voice if his professors asked him to speak. “I’ve been incredibly fortunate for much of my life, in no small part because I pass as a white Englishman. But I empathise with the trauma of colonialism.” 

Zolf regards Oscar thoughtfully. “Do you think that’s what brings Jennifer and Richard together? Their trauma?”

“Yes. And their need for connection and intimacy, which is closely related. I think you see that even early on in the novel, especially from Richard, who’s looking to paint someone with a story worth telling. And he’s attracted to Jennifer because her story is richer than someone who may have faced an easier path in life.” 

“Definitely,” Zolf says, nodding. “You know, that’s why I thought Richard wasn’t right for Jennifer at first. Because she’s so strong and tough, you can just tell right away she’s been through it, and Richard comes off as so—” Zolf waves a hand vaguely. “Cocky. Impractical. Smarmy.” 

Oscar smirks. “Sounds like your type, or so I’ve been led to believe.”

“Oh, sod off,” Zolf huffs. “But, y’know, there's so much more depth to him, at the end of the day. And it's obvious that neither of them has ever felt like they belong in Moorport, even if Jennifer can’t really imagine leavin’.” 

“But don’t you think home means something beyond geography?” Oscar toys with a loose thread in his bedroll. “That was another theme in the novel that really resonated with me.”

“Did it?” Oscar can hear the smile in Zolf’s voice, and when he glances up Zolf looks incredibly smug. 

“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Oscar says dismissively, feeling his face warm. “I’m talking about Jennifer and Richard’s found family. Sam and Meera, and Anna.” 

“Nothin’ familiar at all about that, is there?” Zolf grins broadly, and Oscar can’t help but grin back when Zolf’s eyes crinkle up at the corners.

“Darling, you want to talk about _familiar?”_ Oscar leans closer until his face is mere inches from the bars. “I recall a certain scene in Jennifer’s bedroom that felt awfully _familiar_ to me.” Zolf’s ears colour, and Oscar doubles down. “Be honest, Zolf. Is that what inspired you to calm me down by fucking me, that first time on the _Medea?”_

“Maybe,” Zolf mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t wrong to try it on, though, was I?”

“No, you weren’t, you incurable romantic,” Oscar teases, leaning back on his elbows. “Did you feel like the lead in your own Harrison Campbell novel? _Passions at Sea,_ maybe.”

Zolf barks out a surprised laugh. “Would you believe, that was quite literally the first thing Bosz said when you boarded the _Medea?”_

“Did she really?” Oscar grins. “Great minds, you know.”

“I don’t know if it felt like a romance for me quite yet.” Zolf regards Oscar warmly. “But it does now.”

Oscar’s heart twists painfully, and he swallows hard. _Come back to me, my love. Don't leave me like this._ “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

* * *

***

“Well, it’s time.” Wilde snaps his pocket watch closed and tosses it aside. “Shall we?”

“You first,” Zolf blurts.

“Alright.” Wilde smirks as he unbuttons his shirt and lets it slip down his shoulders. “I’ve been wondering since I brought it up earlier. What did you think of me that first time on the _Medea?”_ He lies back on the bedroll, his skin luminous in the warm lamplight. 

“You were—you were too thin,” Zolf stammers. “You still are.”

“Zolf, darling,” Wilde says, sliding a hand down his chest and over the hollows of his ribs. “I’ve been wasting away without you.”

Zolf wants to crawl over Wilde and cover him with his body, wrap his arms around that too-narrow waist. “You need to eat more.”

Wilde smiles ruefully. “I know. Take off your shirt.” Zolf obediently unbuttons his shirt, and Wilde reaches down and unclasps his trousers. He tugs down his waistband, revealing the sharp contours of his hips. “What else did you think, the first time we fucked?” 

Zolf remembers the way Wilde’s hip bones fit perfectly into his hands, Wilde’s soft, lush arse against his crotch, and he feels his cock stiffen in his pants. “Uhm,” he says thickly. Wilde inches his trousers lower, and the light catches in the dark brush of his pubic hair. “I, uhm, you felt good.” _Gods._

Wilde smiles, wide and pleased, like Zolf has said something incredibly clever. “How did I feel?” Wilde peels off his trousers and rolls onto his stomach, propping his head up with his hand. 

Zolf drags his gaze down the long line of Wilde’s back, over the curve of his arse. “Your skin, uhm, your skin was really smooth.” He wants to lick down Wilde’s spine, kiss each delicate vertebrae, trace the fine lines of his shoulder blades. “And you just kinda fit really well. Into me, that is.” _And your cock was so full and heavy in my hand that I completely lost my mind._

Wilde preens, tossing his hair. “Take your trousers off.” 

Zolf hurriedly removes his trousers, and he’s pushed himself so close to the edge of the cell that his erection brushes against the bars. 

Wilde’s eyes drop to Zolf’s crotch and he lets out a low moan. _“Fuck,”_ he whispers, grinding his hips into the bedroll. “Turn around.”

Zolf turns around and glances back at Wilde over his shoulder. “All clear?”

Wilde sighs, his breath catching in his throat. “Yes.”

Zolf whirls to face Wilde. “Flip over.” 

Wilde grins and languorously rolls onto his back. His cock bobs, flushed and swollen, and Zolf wants to take him in his mouth, taste the salty heat of his desire, let Wilde grip the back of his head and fuck all the way down his throat. Wilde looks up at Zolf through his eyelashes, one hand resting low on his belly. “Do you want me to touch myself?” 

“Yes,” Zolf says quickly. 

Wilde wraps his long fingers around his cock, his eyes never leaving Zolf’s face. Zolf lets out a frustrated groan. “You look _so good.”_

Wilde slides his gaze down Zolf’s body as he slowly drags his hand over the length of his cock. “So do you.” He catches his full lower lip in his teeth and gives himself another leisurely stroke

Zolf grips the bars. “Does that feel good?” 

“Yes,” Wilde sighs. He bends one knee and tilts his hips up, pushing his cock into his hand. “But I wish it was you.”

“Yeah?” Zolf presses his body forward, the cool adamantine bars biting into the heat of his cock. 

“You have no idea.” Wilde starts pumping his cock with quick flicks of his wrist. He moans softly, and his thighs fall open as he drops his head back against the bedroll, baring his long, graceful neck. 

_Mine._ Zolf imagines cradling the back of Wilde’s neck and brushing his lips over his sensitive throat, stroking the silky skin along his inner thighs. _You’re mine._ He takes in Wilde’s heavy-lidded eyes, his flushed cheeks, the tension animating the lean, angular lines of his body. “You absolute beauty,” he breathes. 

Wilde gasps and rakes a hand through his hair, his brow already dewy with sweat. Zolf loves how messy Wilde gets in bed, how desire tangles his fine hair, leaves his flawless skin sticky and slick. He wants to pin Wilde to the floor, kiss him until he’s writhing and desperate for Zolf’s touch, and he tightens his grip on the bars until they cut sharply into his palms. 

“Let me make a mess of you, love,” Zolf says roughly.

 _“Zolf,”_ Wilde groans, tightening his grip on his cock. “Zolf, _please.”_

“You look _so good.”_

Wilde lets out a shaky breath and smiles up at Zolf. “Do you want to know what I thought of you that first time?” 

Zolf swallows and nods. 

“I thought you were going to be the death of me,” Wilde says, his voice husky and uneven as he works his cock. “You were so rough and strong and sure. I couldn’t get enough of you. Then you took me in your hand and I thought, _gods.”_ He moans, arching his back as he fucks up into his fist. “Gods, this is going to be a serious problem. You absolutely _wrecked_ me.”

 _Fuck._ Zolf sucks in a ragged breath and shakes his head. “You were so _keen.”_

“You sound surprised.” A warm flush blooms over Wilde’s chest as he adjusts his grip on his cock, and Zolf can tell he’s getting close.

“I mean, I always knew you were—”

“A slut?” Wilde flashes a wolfish grin. 

Zolf huffs a laugh. “A bit randy, let’s say. But you were so _intense.”_ He shakes his head again, remembering Wilde’s lithe body, taut and responsive under his hands. “I could _feel_ how bad you wanted it.” 

Wilde’s eyes drift shut. He looks unbearably lovely, with his hair twisting across his furrowed brow and his face glowing under a sheen of sweat. “I was falling in love with you.” 

_“Oscar,”_ Zolf groans, his heart squeezing tight in his chest.

“Do you want me to come?” Wilde pants, slowly stroking his cock.

Zolf clenches his jaw and hisses out his breath, the muscles in his core painfully tight. “Not yet.” 

Wilde slides his hand up to rest on his belly, his chest heaving. “What do you want?”

“I want you to wait,” Zolf chokes out.

Wilde opens his eyes and looks up at Zolf, his gaze dark and heated. “For you?” 

_I swear, I will never get enough of you._ “Yes.”

Wilde nods as he combs his hair back and wipes his brow. “Alright.” He turns to face Zolf and curls in on himself, still short of breath. “You might want to get dressed, then.” He smirks as his gaze drops to Zolf’s crotch. “No need to be such a tease.” 

Zolf ears burn as he scrambles to pull on his trousers. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said this before, but my Barnes/Carter is 100% inspired by [ amusensical's ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusensical) fabulous work!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiniest, most unnecessary retcon for anyone reading along, but if you want to read a few extra lines about the safe, go back and reread the first section of [ chapter 5. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829670/chapters/70761063)

It may have taken her nearly a week, but Bosz finally cracks the safe shortly after dawn breaks on the seventh day of Zolf’s quarantine. She pulls off her stethoscope and shakes out her ears, then grits her teeth and yanks the lever. The safe pops open with a satisfying click, revealing a rack of vials filled with viscous fluids in a rainbow of dull, rusty colours.

 _There it is._ Bosz grins as she slips on protective gloves and carefully removes the rack. _Cel is going to_ love _this._

Once the vials are safely stowed for travel, Bosz heads downstairs to deliver Zolf’s breakfast before leaving for Cel’s apothecary. She’s seen Zolf flustered and embarrassed too many times over the past week to be seriously concerned that he won’t make it through quarantine, but still, part of her is glad that she won’t be here when he’s released. _If only so I don’t have to overhear Oscar once they’re reunited,_ she tells herself as she pulls together Zolf’s tray. She remembers that fateful night in the forest outside Izumi and grimaces. _Or Zolf, gods forbid._

She heads down to the cellar and opens the door, then stops dead in her tracks on the stairs. Wilde and Zolf are asleep on the floor, their faces separated by the bars and a hand’s width of space. Bosz claps a hand over her mouth to muffle a delighted squeal, and Wilde stirs, rolling over and slowly opening his eyes. When he catches sight of Bosz, he clutches the bedroll to his bare chest and pushes himself upright. His hair is a snarled, matted disaster, and Bosz has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. 

Wilde rubs a hand over his face, then smiles wryly. _I know, I know,_ he mouths. 

_I’m just gonna go,_ Bosz mouths back, then pumps her fist in the air. Wilde rolls his eyes, and Bosz lets herself out of the cellar as quietly as she can. She carries the tray back to the kitchen and puts everything away, a huge grin on her face. _I’ll let you take care of this for him, Oscar._ She steals a pen and paper from Wilde’s office and scribbles him a note. 

> _Cracked the safe this morning. Found exactly what we expected. Headed to the alchemist to get the mutagens tested, will probably spend the night in the village._
> 
> _\- Bosz_
> 
> _P.S. Congratulations on finally getting your head out of your ass. Have fun tonight!_

* * *

It’s still early enough that Cel’s apothecary isn’t open by the time Bosz arrives, so she knocks on the front door. She waits a few minutes until Cel finally pokes their head out, a puff of frizzy blonde hair spilling out of a slime green, cable-knit cap. “Hello?” they say in Gnomish, scanning the air over Bosz’s head. Bosz clears her throat, and Cel finally glances down, their face lighting up with a delighted smile. 

“Bosz! Oh, wow, _hi!_ It’s _so good_ to see you,” Cel gushes, switching into the half Gnomish, half English pidgin they use with one another. “It’s been too long! How long has it been? A month? Two months?”

Bosz grins back. Cel is such a refreshing break from her house full of moody boys. “A few weeks, I think. It’s good to see you, too.” She holds up her bag. “I’ve got something _ridiculously_ dangerous for you,” she murmurs conspiratorially. 

“Oh!” Cel’s mouth drops open as their cheeks flush with excitement. “Is this the...the thing? From the person? From the place?” 

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” Bosz cocks her head to one side. “Can I come in?”

Cel blinks, as though they’d forgotten that they’re still standing in their doorway. “Yes, of course! Come in, come in, come in, let me make you some tea.”

Bosz walks inside, eying Cel’s cap. “I like your hat.” 

Cel touches the cap with a little smile. “Why thank you! I made it myself!”

“What?! You know how to knit?” Bosz sets her bag down carefully and clambers into a chair. 

“Of course!” Cel fusses with their dizzyingly complex teamaker, then pulls out a teapot bundled in a slime green, cable-knit tea cosy. “It’s so fun!”

“Really, Cel, is there anything you can’t do?” Bosz teases. 

Cel blushes and lets out a happy little squeak, and Bosz feels inordinately pleased with herself. “You know, I like to keep my hands busy, and it’s such a problem solving solution, so good for developing fine motor control for working on those really delicate devices.” The teamaker starts to gently fizz and bubble, and Cel plucks off the tea cosy and slides the teapot over just in time to catch the sencha swirling through a coiled glass tube. “And, and, and then I get a hat, and a tea cosy, and a whole set of coasters!” They slip the tea cosy back onto the pot and pour Bosz a steaming cup of sencha, then pass her the tea along with a slime green, cable-knit coaster. “I dye the yarn myself, using indigo and turmeric. I conducted a few different tests, but I found the perfect ratio was…”

Bosz hums with pleasure as she sips Cel’s lovely tea and listens to them babble about the chemical processes involved in dying wool. She watches Cel’s rawboned, expressive hands and finds herself wondering what device Cel was building when they picked up that crescent-shaped scar curling over the knuckles of their right hand, what explosion left that rosy starburst under their left thumb. 

Bosz thinks of Wilde waking up on the cellar floor with the worst bed head she’s ever seen in her life, almost certainly panicking out of his mind about Zolf’s final check tonight. _Remember why you followed him to Japan. Don’t waste any more of your time._ She waits for Cel to pause for a breath, then chimes in. “Would you teach me how to knit? I’ve been wanting to learn.”

Cel beams and leans forward eagerly. “I’d _love_ to,” they say a little breathlessly. “Oh, that’d be _so much fun!_ I’d need to make you a set of needles, but that’s no bother at all, I could put those together today. I have all kinds of materials we could pick from, there’s bamboo and steel and aluminum and rosewood and ebony and—” 

Bosz smirks. “Could you make needles balanced like a dart?”

 _“Yes.”_ Cel’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “What a fabulous idea!”

Bosz feels something warm flutter in her chest, and she impulsively reaches out and catches Cel’s hand. _I can work with this,_ she thinks, tracing the lines of their palm with her thumb.

Cel turns bright pink. “Oh! I, oh, I, I, I, uhm, I, uhm. You can hold my hand, uhm, if you want. I’m assuming that’s what you want. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t mind if you—I mean, I’d like it if you—I mean, I guess you wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t want to, but I—”

Bosz smiles and lets Cel stammer a little longer than maybe she should. _You’re so charming when you’re flustered._ She thinks of sharp, serious, compact Pabni, frowning at her over yet another of Bosz’s half-finished projects. _Don’t start what you can’t finish,_ Pabni always said. Bosz would smile apologetically and shrug. _But you can’t finish what you never start._

Bosz sets down her tea and cups Cel’s hand in both of her own, taking in their gangly frame and soft, open face. _Different,_ she muses, allowing herself to wonder what it might be like to be the order to someone’s chaos. _But different can be good._


	27. Chapter 27

While Oscar hadn’t slept well in months, he barely slept at all during Barnes’s quarantine. _You knew going in,_ he told himself. _You knew it was only a matter of time before you lost another agent._ But this felt personal, far more so than the loss of his team in Rome. As much as he’d trusted Azu, Grizzop, Sasha, and Hamid, their relationship had always been tempered by distance. Oscar appeared every few days to tell them what to do and where to go, and they weren’t especially fond of him, to put it lightly. That arrangement had suited Oscar just fine. He’d never been particularly interested in developing close relationships with anyone, let alone his agents. Distance gave him a critical edge, kept him sharp and prepared to move on as soon as his circumstances inevitably changed. 

But Oscar didn’t have the luxury of distance, not anymore, not when he’d lived with Zolf, Bosz, Barnes, and Carter longer than anyone since his family back home in Ireland. Not when he shared their food, fought by their side, watched them fall in love. In a past life, he’d worry about being compromised. But not in this life, where he was lucky to be alive and in control of his own mind. No, in this life, trust meant something far more personal and intimate than it ever had before.

It meant grieving the loss of an agent like the loss of one of his closest friends, because they were one and the same. 

It meant reconsidering his relationship with the man he loved, because what was Oscar afraid of, really?

After Barnes passed his final check, Oscar wandered back to his office, feeling unsettled and empty. He pulled _Pride and Prejudice_ into his lap, turning to the scene where Lizzy refused to promise Lady Catherine that she would never marry Darcy.

> _“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”_
> 
> _“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”_
> 
> _“You are then resolved to have him?”_
> 
> _“I have said no such thing._ _I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me._ _”_
> 
> _“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”_
> 
> _“_ _Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude_ _,” replied Elizabeth, “_ _have any possible claim on me, in the present instance._ _No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”_

Oscar hummed thoughtfully. What duty, or honour, or gratitude had any possible claim on him here? Zolf, Barnes, and Bosz were all he really had anymore. They were all compromised, and the old rules no longer applied.

 _What are you afraid of, really?_ He flipped back to the passage where Lizzy reevaluated her opinion of Darcy after meeting his sister.

> _She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare;_ _and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses. _

Oscar knew that if he knocked on Zolf’s door after his watch ended tonight, Zolf would let him inside and pull him into bed. That’s what Zolf did—he looked after those for whom he felt responsible, and he understood exactly what Oscar needed from him. _But do you see me as something more than the sickly man who needed you to save him from Poseidon’s curse?_

Oscar left his office and walked towards the entrance of the inn. He crouched on the floor and peered out the window, where he could see Zolf standing just off the road, keeping watch in the pouring rain. _Zolf Smith belongs to no one but himself,_ Oscar had once sworn before a god. _So how far would it be for the happiness of both if I allowed myself to fall back into your bed?_

Zolf shifted his weight and leaned on his glaive, and Oscar wanted nothing more than to pull Zolf out of the rain, let him rest his aching legs while Oscar put the kettle on. _I already owe you more than my life. Would you let me care for you, the way you care for me?_

Something flashed at the edge of Oscar’s vision. He blinked, squinting through the rain, and saw the slender outline of a shadowy figure gliding over the road. 

_Shit._ He bolted for the door, a spell already forming on his lips. A distraction wouldn’t work here—Carter was too familiar with Oscar’s spellwork to be fooled by an illusion. _Unnaturally agile and strong,_ Barnes had said. Something to slow Carter down, then, give Zolf the opportunity to leverage his superior reach.

A grating hiss cut through the rain as Oscar wrenched the door open and ran outside. Carter was retreating around Zolf’s left flank, blood dripping from his shoulder. Oscar focused his gaze on Carter’s strange, slippery movements and began to sing. 

But before Oscar could cast his spell, Zolf stepped in front of Carter, blocking Oscar’s line of sight and breaking his concentration. “Get _back,”_ Zolf shouted. He swept his glaive behind him, exposing his neck, and Carter surged forward. Zolf sprang back, but Carter’s blue fingers snaked over Zolf’s throat as his dagger sliced into his chest.

Blood roared in Oscar’s ears as he darted closer to regain sight of Carter. He began the spell anew, raising his voice to build his power. _Don’t do this to me, Zolf._

Zolf swore and swung his glaive in a wide arc, ripping the blade through Carter’s neck. Carter crumpled to the ground, and Zolf stood over the body, his chest heaving. He flung out an arm in Oscar’s direction. “Don’t you dare come any closer,” he snapped. _“Listen to me,_ it’s over, I’ll deal with it, don’t you _dare.”_

Oscar stormed back to the entrance of the inn. _How dare you treat me like a fucking liability, you arrogant, patronising, bloody-minded idiot._ He turned to watch Zolf prepare Carter’s body for cremation, and the adrenaline and rage burning through his veins curdled into dread. _What on earth have you done?_

* * *

After Bosz leaves, Oscar gets dressed and watches Zolf sleep while he works a comb through his tangled hair. There’s an ease to Zolf’s face that Oscar never sees when he’s awake, his callous, salty edges smoothed away by sleep. Oscar wonders what it would take to get Zolf to consciously lower all of his defenses, if he’ll ever trust Oscar enough, and suddenly his vision blurs and he has to close his eyes.

Oscar has never been in love before, and it is without question the absolute worst thing to ever happen to him. This desperate, reckless _need_ surging in his chest, twisting his gut, choking the air from his lungs—he’s sick with it, he _burns_ with it, he doesn’t understand where it’s all supposed to go, how to catch his breath and soothe the endless, physical ache of loving Zolf. 

_Give me more time._ Oscar inhales slowly, feels the teeth of the comb biting into his palm, smells mildew and tobacco, listens to Zolf’s gentle breathing. _I need more time with you._ Oscar wants to love Zolf before the _Medea,_ before La Triomphe, before Hamid’s apartment. He wants to leave the Meritocracy and stow away on the _Snapdragon,_ befriend Bosz and Pabni and beg to be introduced to the gruff cleric of Poseidon who won’t give him the time of day. He wants to drop out of Oxford and join the navy, flirt shamelessly with the surly dwarf in the bunk across the way until he agrees to show him the ropes. He wants to run away from Dublin and pass through Herefordshire on his way to London, stumble down a mineshaft and wander underground until he’s found by a blonde, scowling miner searching for a reason to leave home and start a new life.

Oscar opens his eyes, and it hurts to look at Zolf, to read the history of his body that Oscar will only ever know secondhand, but Oscar can’t bear to look away. _Forever isn’t long enough to love you._ Zolf stirs, reaching up to pillow his head on his arm. _But I’ll take whatever time I can get._

Zolf blinks blearily up at Oscar, his face still soft with sleep. His eyes are the colour of dried herbs in the morning light, and Oscar wants to curl up on Zolf’s chest and count the gold and copper flecks scattered across his irises. 

Oscar smiles at Zolf. _You’ll be fine, my love. But I’ll be here, either way._ “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Zolf croaks. His gaze drifts up to Oscar’s hair and he smiles lazily. “I’ve missed your bed head.”

“Have you, now?” Oscar sighs dramatically as he resumes combing his ruined hair. “I’ll never understand why you take such a sadistic delight in seeing me at my worst. It’s been a running theme ever since you doused me in water in La Triomphe.”

“Oh, come off it.” Zolf lifts himself up on his elbows. “I haven’t cast create water over you since Paris, no matter how many times you might’ve deserved it.”

“No, darling, you’ve just discovered even less civilised ways to get my body wet.” Oscar grins as the tips of Zolf’s ears flush red, and he leans closer. “You’ve always loved making a mess of me, haven’t you?”

“Uhm.” Zolf coughs and clears his throat, then looks at Oscar defiantly. “Don’t act like you haven’t loved every minute of it.” 

_Fuck._ The heat in Zolf’s gaze goes straight to Oscar’s groin, and for a moment all he can do is swallow around an overwhelming rush of desire. “Yes,” he chokes out, which he belatedly realises is a nonsensical response. He crosses his legs and fusses with his hair, his face burning. 

Zolf reclines back on the mattress, resting his arms behind his head and looking unfairly attractive. Oscar’s cock throbs, and he squeezes his thighs together to relieve some of the pressure. Zolf drops his eyes to Oscar’s crotch and smirks. “Easy, love. We’ve got all day.” 

Oscar tucks his knees into his chest and glares petulantly at Zolf as he finishes combing his hair. “You’re so unfair.” 

“Bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Since when have you ever played fair?”

“That’s different,” Oscar sniffs. He sets his comb aside and pushes himself to his feet. “Well, I’m off to get us some breakfast.” 

“Cheers.” Zolf stretches languidly and wrinkles his nose. “Could you leave the tea leaves in the pot? Bosz’s tea tastes like lukewarm water.” 

Bosz makes _excellent_ tea, actually, especially since she started spending more time with that alchemist in the village, but Wilde just grins and nods. _Sencha, brewed to within an inch of its life, taken without milk or sugar, bitter as poison and scalding hot._ “Of course.”

* * *

“So I’ve been tryin’ to figure out when Lizzy falls in love with Darcy,” Zolf says, paging through _Pride and Prejudice._ “And I reckon it happens after she gets that letter from her uncle that lays out all the stuff Darcy did for her.” He finds the passage he’s looking for and reads it aloud:

> _It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return._ _They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him._ _For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself._

Wilde hums and lies back on the bedroll, his hair fanning out around his face. “I love that line,” he says dreamily. “You know, I could listen to you read Austen for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t be daft,” Zolf mutters, feeling vaguely ridiculous. “Well? What d’you reckon?”

“Ultimately, I think she’s in the middle before she knew she had begun. But I do think that’s when she finally acknowledges the true depths of her feelings for Darcy. It’s such a wonderful moment thematically, since Lizzy initially despises Darcy for his pride, and for wounding her pride, and now she’s proud _of_ him. And that’s what makes her realise that she’s in love with him, being humbled by Darcy in a way that couldn’t be more different than the first time they met. And that—” Wilde turns to face Zolf and smirks. “—that is why Darcy and Lizzy are _both_ ‘pride’ _and_ ‘prejudice.’”

Zolf snorts and waves a hand at Wilde. “Yes, alright, I get it, you don’t have to be a dick.” 

Wilde tips his head back. “But I think the more important moment in the narrative is when Lizzy gives herself permission to marry Darcy. When do you think that happens?”

“Hmmm.” Zolf flips through the book. “That scene with whatsername. That horrible posh lady.”

Wilde grins. “Lady Catherine. When she goes to try to convince Lizzy that Darcy has to marry her daughter.”

“Yeah, and Lizzy’s like, sod off, that has fuck-all to do with me. Yeah, here we go,” he says, finding the right page. “It’s this line, the one you underlined. _‘I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.’”_ He looks up. “I reckon that's a big moment for Lizzy, since she previously thought about her relationship with Darcy in terms of ‘obligations,’ while now it’s about her ‘happiness.’” 

Wilde frowns and pushes himself upright. “Yes, that’s—that’s exactly right.” He rests his chin in his hand and regards Zolf intently. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Yes, that’s _very_ good.”

Zolf’s ears burn like fire, and he fiddles with the pages of the book, feeling warm and pleased. “So, uhm, how many times have you read _Pride and Prejudice?”_

Wilde chuckles. “Oh gods, I have no idea. Dozens of times, at least. I don’t always sit down and read it straight through, though. Sometimes I just want to revisit a particular chapter, or a certain passage.” He leans forward on his knees. “How many times have you read _When Passions Collide?_ ”

“Dunno. Maybe twenty times?”

Wilde raises his eyebrows. _"Twenty times?_ In _eight months?”_

“Oi, it was the only Campbell I had for a while! It got me through some shit times.” He shuts _Pride and Prejudice_ and sets the book aside. “Is that when you read _Pride and Prejudice?_ When things are just a bit shit?" 

“Yes.” Wilde hesitates. “But I don’t—I don’t just turn to _Pride and Prejudice_ because it’s a comfort read. I...” He trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what, never mind.”

“Alright, Oscar.” Zolf grins encouragingly. “C’mon now. Out with it.”

Wilde shakes his head, wincing. “Honestly, it’s unbearably silly. Please don’t make me say it.”

“Oscar,” Zolf says, delighted. “I’m hardly one to laugh at you for lovin’ a romance novel.”

“It’s not that.” Wilde takes a deep breath. “Lately I’ve been reading _Pride and Prejudice_ because it reminds me of us, and I liked—I can’t say it, Zolf. It’s _ridiculous.”_

“More ridiculous than falling in love with a bard?”

“Unquestionably. I liked to imagine I was—”

“Mr Darcy.” Zolf nods sagely.

 _“Mr Darcy!”_ Wilde splutters and clutches his chest, outraged. “I am _clearly_ Elizabeth!”

“‘Darcy was clever,’” Zolf quotes, thoroughly pleased with himself. “‘He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.’”

Wilde scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am hardly _reserved.”_

Zolf chuckles and holds up his hands. “Alright, you got me there. But also, you’re the one who made the bad first impression.”

“You _headbutted_ me!”

“You were _flirting_ with _Bertie!”_

Wilde waves a hand dismissively. “No, darling, _you_ are Mr Darcy. Austere, curmudgeonly, unsociable—”

“Alright, alright,” Zolf cuts in, rolling his eyes.

“—handsome, loyal, principled, honourable.” Wilde grins and winks. “Indeed you have no improper pride.”

Zolf rubs his neck and grimaces. “You’re the worst.” 

“But of course.” Wilde tosses his hair. “‘Now, be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?’”

Zolf leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. _You beautiful, mad bastard._ “For your resilience and tenacity, I did.”

Wilde smiles shyly and flushes a lovely, delicate pink, and Zolf falls in love with him all over again.

* * *

As the night wears closer to midnight, Wilde becomes increasingly restless, fiddling incessantly with his pocket watch. 

“That’s not gonna make time move any faster,” Zolf points out the hundredth time Wilde flips his watch open.

“Yes, I know, sorry,” Wilde sighs, slamming his watch shut and slipping it back into his pocket. He hauls himself to his feet and starts pacing around the cellar.

Zolf watches him through the bars, keeping a sharp eye on his face. “Alright, Oscar?”

“Yes.” Wilde pauses and takes a deep breath, then slowly exhales. He resumes pacing, one hand fisted in his hair. 

“Come talk to me for a minute.”

Wilde continues pacing. “We can talk once you’re out.”

“Oscar,” Zolf says gently. “Come here.” 

Wilde sighs and walks up to the cell, crouching down in front of Zolf. “I think you can understand why I might be a little anxious."

“Sure, but I don’t want you to have a stroke or nothin’,” Zolf says lightly. “Just a few more minutes, now.”

Wilde looks up, his eyes bright in the lamplight, and smiles softly. “You’re going to be fine.”

Zolf smiles back. “I know.”

“You’d better be. Do you have any idea how much time I spent writing that letter?”

“D’you have any idea how much time I spent on yours?”

Wilde rubs his face. “However much time it took you to write, that letter was perfect, Zolf. Absolutely perfect.”

“Oscar.” Zolf rests his hand on the bars. “I—”

Wilde shakes his head. “Don’t. We’ll talk when you’re out.” He pulls out his pocket watch, flipping it open. “Well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “This slumber party has been lovely, but I’m ready when you are.” 

“Alright.” Zolf takes a deep breath and strips, then presents himself for inspection. 

“Turn around,” Wilde says crisply, his face smooth and unreadable. 

Zolf turns. “All clear?”

Wilde lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yes.” 

Zolf’s heart swoops in his chest. He scoops up his shirt and shrugs it back on, grinning. “Alright, Oscar?” 

“Gods, I—” Wilde fumbles with his keys and unlocks the gate “—I knew, but I, I just, I—” Wilde strides inside the cell and falls to his knees, pulling Zolf into his arms and pressing his face into the crook of Zolf’s neck.

 _Oh._ Zolf cradles Wilde’s head in his hands, his mind firing off incoherent strings of nonsense. _Love. Mine. Precious. Love. Perfect. Protect. Love. Stay._

“For goodness sake,” he chides. “I stink to the Outer Planes.”

Wilde nuzzles into Zolf and inhales deeply. “Not to me,” he mumbles. “Missed you. Missed this.”

 _Stay with me._ Zolf takes a deep breath and strokes Wilde’s hair. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says gruffly. _But I need you to stay with me._ He gently pulls Wilde off his neck, guiding him to face forward. “Let me have a look at you.” 

Wilde is always beautiful, no matter how many sleepless nights he weathers. But Zolf can see how stress and exhaustion have furrowed his brow, pinched the corners of his eyes, tightened his lips. _I may never know how to keep you safe._ He frames Wilde’s face with his hands, smoothing his thumbs over his painfully sharp cheekbones. _But let me love you, Oscar Wilde._ Zolf pulls Wilde close and kisses him, groaning softly when Wilde tugs on his beard to deepen the kiss. _Just let me._

Wilde breaks the kiss and rests their foreheads together. “Zolf.” He trails his fingers over Zolf’s throat and down his chest, tracing the path where Carter brushed against him seven days ago. “You can’t do that to me.” 

Zolf brushes Wilde’s hair behind his ears and shakes his head. _I can’t apologize for doing what needed to be done._ “I can,” he says quietly. “And I will. It’s my job.” 

Wilde takes Zolf’s hand and presses it to his chest, and the driving rhythm of Wilde’s heartbeat thrums against his palm. “That’s not what I meant.” He sits back and regards Zolf for a long moment, shadows flitting over his dark eyes, and Zolf realises he’s completely out of his depth. 

_Just tell me, love. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it, I swear, just tell me what I need to do to make you stay._

“What do you want?” Zolf finally asks. 

Wilde frowns as he reaches out and caresses Zolf’s cheek. He leans in and kisses him, soft and lingering, and Zolf shuts his eyes against the memory of Wilde fleeing into the night. _Please, let me have this. Please, just let me._

“I want you,” Wilde says gently. “But I need you to trust me.” He picks up Zolf’s trousers and hands them over with a smile. “Come on. We can talk about it in the baths.”


End file.
